AMERICAN  LITERATURE 

THROUGH 
ILLUSTRATIVE  READINGS 


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AMERICAN  LITERATURE 

THROUGH 
ILLUSTRATIVE  READINGS 


BY 

SARAH  E.  SIMONS 

BSAD   OP  THE   DEPABTMENT  OF  ENGLISH   IN   THE  HIGH  SCHOOLS, 
WASHINGTON,  D.  C. 


CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 

NEW  YORK  CHICAGO  BOSTON 


Copyright,  igis,  by 
CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 


PREFACE 

This  volume  is  intended  as  a  handbook  for  high-school 
students  of  American  literature.  The  purpose  of  the  book 
is  to  give  a  fair  view  of  what  has  been  done  and  is  still 
being  done  in  the  domain  of  American  letters,  and  to  stimu- 
late, through  the  illustrations,  further  reading  in  and  ap- 
preciation of  American  authors.  The  work  is  by  no  means 
exhaustive,  but  it  is  believed  that  it  is  representative  of 
the  periods  and  the  personalities  in  our  literary  develop- 
ment. A  relatively  large  space  has  been  given  to  living 
writers  and  recent  literary  activities  because  the  high- 
school  pupil's  interest  is  emphatically  in  the  present-day 
author  and  his  reading  is  chiefly  from  contemporary  pro- 
ductions. Hence  he  needs  direction  and  guidance  in  this 
field  as  much  as  anywhere.  Moreover,  through  the  study 
of  the  good  modern  writer,  he  may  be  drawn  to  the  classic 
when  he  sees  the  dependence  of  the  new  writer  on  the  old, 
when  he  realizes  the  modern  author's  appreciation  of  the 
great  and  the  good  in  the  achievement  of  earlier  men. 

All  work  of  a  critical  nature  has  been  purposely  omitted 
as  outside  the  sphere  of  interest  and  comprehension  of 
the  high-school  student.  Even  in  the  bibliographies  no 
mention  is  made  of  books  which  are  works  of  appraisal 
mainly.  Further  readings  in  the  particular  authors  are 
indicated  and  reference  is  made  to  works  which  shed  light 
on  the  period  and  on  the  environment  of  the  author,  for 
the  sake  of  atmosphere  and  background. 


392448 


vi  Preface 

The  character  of  such  a  course  in  American  literature 
as  is  intended  by  the  use  of  this  handbook  is  extensive 
rather  than  intensive.  The  pupils  must,  from  the  nature  of 
the  case,  make  free  use  of  the  library.  The  mere  handling 
of  many  books  is  valuable  training.  A  splendid  opportu- 
nity is  also  offered  for  the  preparation  of  special  topics. 
Here  the  work  should  become  more  specialized  and  de- 
tailed than  for  the  daily  class  preparation.  And  last,  but 
not  least  important,  such  a  course  gives  frequent  chance 
for  oral  reading.  Perhaps,  indeed,  this  is  the  most  ef- 
fective means  of  inducing  appreciation  of  the  author  under 
consideration.  Says  Professor  Rose  Colby  in  Literature 
and  Life  in  the  School:  *'The  best  response  to  be  secured 
by  the  teacher  from  the  student,"  in  the  work  on  any  bit 
of  literature,  *'is  the  fullest  interpretative  vocal  rendering 
of  it."  Thus  such  a  course  in  American  literature  may  be 
viewed  incidentally  from  various  angles  as  a  course  in 
library  work,  or  a  course  in  special-topic  reports,  or  a  course 
in  oral  reading — any  one  of  which  would  be  valuable  per  se. 

The  bibliographies  contain  suggestions  for  further  read- 
ings in  the  authors  treated  in  this  volume  and  also  sug- 
gestions for  readings  in  certain  authors  from  whom,  owing 
to  copyright  restrictions,  it  was  impossible  to  get  extracts. 

Thanks  are  due  to  the  publishers  for  permission  to  use 
the  following  selections:  The  Open  Shop,  by  Lyman  Abbott, 
The  Outlook  Company;  The  Story  of  the  Doodang,  from 
Uncle  Remus  and  the  Little  Boy,  by  Joel  Chandler  Harris, 
Small,  Maynard  &  Co;  To  the  Death,  from  The  Call  of  the 
Wild,  by  Jack  London,  Some  Memories  of  Childhood,  from 
Richard  Carvel,  by  Winston  Churchill,  The  Child  and 
America  to  England,  by  George  E.  Woodberry,  Bimini  and 
the  Fountain  of  Youth,  from  Tales  of  the  Enchanted  Islands 
of  the  Atlantic  J  by  Thomas  Wentworth  Higginson,  Changes 


Preface  vii 

oj  the  'Nineteenth  Century^  from  Democracy  and  Education^ 
by  Nicholas  Murray  Butler,  Ode  on  the  Centenary  oj  Abra- 
ham Lincoln,  by  Percy  MacKaye,  The  Macmillan  Company; 
The  Wheat  Pit,  from  The  Pit,  by  Frank  Norris,  The  Count 
and  the  Wedding  Guest,  by  ''0.  Henry,"  Nature  in  Poetry, 
from  Songs  of  Nature,  by  John  Burroughs,  The  Man  with 
the  Hoe,  by  Edwin  Markham,  Doubleday,  Page  &  Com- 
pany; The  Call  of  the  Bugles,  by  Richard  Hovey,  Dufheld 
&  Company;  John  Gilley,  from  John  Gilley,  Maine  Farmer 
and  Fisherman,  by  Charles  W.  Eliot,  Hughes  School  Days, 
from  Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker,  by  S.  Weir  Mitchell,  China 
to  the  Ranging  Eye,  from  The  Changing  Chinese,  by  Edward 
Alsworth  Ross,  The  Century  Company;  The  Old  Man  and 
Jim,  by  James  Whitcomb  Riley,  The  Bobbs-Merrill  Com- 
pany; By  the  Pacific  Ocean  and  Dead  in  the  Sierras,  by 
Joaquin  Miller,  The  Death  of  McKinley,  from  The  Lessons 
of  the  Tragedy,  in  The  Voice  of  the  Scholar,  by  David  Starr 
Jordan,  The  Whi taker  &  Ray-Wiggin  Company;  Worth 
While  and  Recrimination,  by  Ella  Wheeler  Wilcox,  The 
W.  B.  Conkey  Company;  My  Double  and  How  He  Undid 
Me,  by  Edward  Everett  Hale,  Little,  Brown  &  Company; 
His  Christmas  Miracle,  from  The  Raid  of  the  Guerilla,  by 
Mary  N.  Murfree,  The  J.  B.  Lippincott  Company;  A 
Southern  Girl,  and  My  Little  Girl,  by  Samuel  Minturn  Peck, 
The  Frederick  A.  Stokes  Company;  The  Vocabulary,  from 
Self -Cultivation  in  English,  by  George  H.  Palmer,  The 
Thomas  Y.  Crowell  Company;  The  Death  of  the  Flowers, 
To  a  Waterfowl,  The  Hurricane,  and  To  the  Fringed  Gentian, 
by  WilHam  Cullen  Bryant,  D.  Apple  ton  &  Company;  A 
Coon  Song,  by  Paul  Lawrence  Dunbar,  The  Feeling  for 
Literature,  from  Books  and  Culture,  by  Hamilton  Wright 
Mabie,  The  Other  One,  by  Harry  Thurston  Peck,  Dodd, 
Mead  &  Company. 


viii  Preface 

The  selections  from  the  writings  of  Longfellow,  Whittier, 
Emerson,  Thoreau,  Hawthorne,  Lowell,  Holmes,  Stowe, 
Phelps,  AHce  and  Phoebe  Gary,  Sill,  Hay,  Howells,  James, 
Gilder,  and  Arlo  Bates  are  reprinted  by  permission  and 
special  arrangement  with  the  publishers,  the  Houghton 
Mifflin  Gompany. 

S.  E.  S. 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

General  View i 

General  Bibliography .        3 


PART  I.    THE  PRELIMINARY  PERIOD 
CHAPTER  I.     THE   COLONIAL  EPOCH 

1.  Captain  John  Smith  (1580-1631) S 

2.  William  Strachey  (d.  1617) 7 

3.  Richard  Mather,  Thomas  Welde,  and  John  Eliot 

— The  Bay  Psalm  Book  (1640) 9 

4.  Anne  Bradstreet  (1613-1672) 10 

5.  Benjamin  Harris — The  New  England  Primer  (1687- 

1690) 12 

6.  Samuel  Sewall  (1652-1730) 13 

7.  The  Mathers — Richard  ( 1 596-1669) ;  Increase  (1639- 

1723);  Cotton  (1663-1728) 14 

8.  Jonathan  Edwards  (1703-1758) i6y^ 

9.  John  Woolman  (1720-1772) •     •     •       ^7 

CHAPTER  11.    THE   REVOLUTIONARY  ERA 
I.    Orations  and  State  Papers 

1.  James  Otis  (1725-1783) 21 

2.  Benjamin  Franklin  (i 706-1 790) 24 

3.  George  Washington  (173 2-1 799) 28 

4.  Patrick  Henry  (i 736-1 799) 30 

ix 


X  Contents 

PAQB 

5.  Thomas  Paine  (1737-1809) 33 

6.  Alexander  Hamilton  (i 757-1804) 34 

7.  Thomas  Jefferson  (i 743-1826) 37 

II.    Songs  and  Ballads 

8.  Francis  Hopkinson  (i  737-1 791) 41 

9.  Joseph  Hopkinson  (i 770-1842) 43 

10.  Ballad  of  Nathan  Hale 45 

11.  John  Trumbull  (1750-1831) 47 

12.  Joel  Barlow  (1754-1812) 49 

13.  Timothy  Dwight  (1752-1817)      .......  51 

HI.    Other  Literary  Records 

14.  Philip  Freneau  (1752-1832) 53 

15.  Charles  Brockden  Brown  (1771-1810)     ....  55 

16.  RoYALL  Tyler  (1757-1826) 58 

IV.    A  Literary  Anomaly 

17.  Phillis  Wheatley  Peters .  59 

PART  XL     THE  NATIONAL  PERIOD 

CHAPTER  III.     THE   EARLY  WRITERS 
I.    Great  Names 

1.  Washington  Irving  (i 783-1859) 63 

2.  James  Fenimore  Cooper  (1789-1851) 71 

3.  Daniel  Webster  (i 782-1852) 80 

4.  Edgar  Allan  Poe  (i  809-1 849) 83 

5.  Willlam  Cullen  Bryant  (i  794-1878) 91 


Contents  xi 
II.     Of  Lesser  Note 

PAGE 

1.  Fitz-Greene  Halleck  (1790-1867) 97 

2.  Joseph  R.  Drake  (i 795-1820) 98 

3.  Francis  Scott  Key  (17 79-1843) 100 

4.  Samuel  WooDWORTH  (i  785-1842) loi 

5.  Emma  H.  Willard  (i 787-1870) 102 

6.  John  Howard  Payne  (i 791-1852) 103 

7.  George  Morris  (1802-1864) 104 

8.  Nathaniel  Parker  Willis  (180 7- 1867)      .     .     .     .  105 

9.  William  Gilmore  Simms  (1806- 18 70) no 

10.  Richard  Henry  Dana,  Jr.^  (181 5-1882)       ....  in 

11.  Rev.  Samuel  F.  Smith  (1808-189 5) 118 

CHAPTER   IV.    WRITERS    OF  THE    MID-CENTURY 
AND   AFTER 


I.     Great  Names 

Ralph  Waldo  Emerson  (1803-1882) 120 

Henry  D.  Thoreau  (1817-1862) 131 

Nathaniel  Hawthorne  (1804-1864) 133 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow  ( 1807-188 2).     .     .  147 

John  Greenleaf  Whittier  (1807-1892)     ....  161 

James  Russell  Lowell  (1819-1891) 166 

Oliver  Wendell  Holmes  (i 809-1 894) 177 


II.    Of  Lesser  Note 
A .     Prose — Fiction 

1.  Harriet  Beecher  Stowe  (181 2-1896) 193 

2.  Helen  Fiske  Jackson  (1831-1885) 197 

3.  Louisa  M.  Alcott  (1832-1888)    . 200 


xii  Contents 


PAGX 


4.  Charles  F.  Browne  (1834-1867) 201 

5.  Henry  W.  Shaw  (1818-1885) 202 

6.  Edgar  Wilson  Nye  (1850-1896) 203 

7.  Donald  Grant  Mitchell  (182  2-1908) 204 

8.  Edward  Everett  Hale  (182 2-1 909) 207 

9.  Lewis  Wallace  (1827-1905) 217 

10.  Frank  R.  Stockton  (1834-1902)      ......  217 

11.  Bret  Harte  (1839-1902) 223 

12.  Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich  (1836-1907) 224 

^^^2>'  Samuel  L.  Clemens  (1835-1910) 224 

14.  Elizabeth  Stuart  Phelps  Ward  (1844-1911)      .     .  229 

B.     Prose — Non-Fiction 

I.  Edward  Everett  (1794-1865)' 235 

,     2.  Abraham  Lincoln  (1809-1865) 240 

3.  Wendell  Philips  (1811-1884) 242 

4.  John  Lothrop  Motley  (1814-1877) 244 

5.  Henry  Ward  Beecher  (1813-1887) 247 

6.  Bayard  Taylor  (1825-1878) 251 

7.  George  William  Curtis  (1824-1892) 254 

8.  Francis  Parkman  (1823-1893) 256 

9.  John  Fiske  (1842-1901) 259 

TO.  Henry  W.  Grady  (1850-1889) 259 

11.  Charles  Eliot  Norton  (1827-1908) 262 

12.  Thomas  Wentworth  Higginson  (i 823-191  i)  .     .     .  264 

C.     Poetry 

1.  Albert  Pike  (1809-1891) 268 

2.  Theodore  O'Hara  (1820-1867) 270 


/ 


Contents  xiii 


PAGE 


3.  Henry  Timrod  (1829-1867) 273 

4.  Paul  Hamilton  Hayne  (183 0-1886) 274 

5.  Sidney  Lanier  (1842-1881) 275 

6.  Stephen  C.  Foster  (1826-1864)  .......  280 

7. .  Alice  Gary  (1820-1871) 281 

8.  Phcebe  Gary  (1824-1871) 282 

9.  Thomas  Buchanan  Read  (18 2  2-1 87  2) 283 

10.  Emily  Dickinson  (1830-1886) 285 

11.  Edward  Rowland  Sill  (1841-1887) 286 

12.  Emma  Lazarus  (1849-1887) 287 

13.  Walt  Whitman  (1819-1892) 287 

14.  Richard  Henry  Stoddard  (1825-1903)       ....  290 

15.  Julia  Ward  Howe  (1819-1910) 291 

16.  John  Hay  (1838-1905) 292 


CHAPTER  V.    LATER  AND  PRESENT-DAY 
WRITERS 

I.    Prose — Fiction 

1.  S.  Weir  Mitchell  (1830-1914) 296 

2.  William  Dean  Ho  wells  (1837-        )    .     .     .     .     .  302 

3.  Francis  Hopkinson  Smith  (1838-        )       ....  305 

4.  George  Washington  Gable  (1844-        )    .     .     .     .  308 

5.  Joel  Ghandler  Harris  (1848-1908) 310 

6.  Thomas  Nelson  Page  (1853-        ) 313 

7.  Ruth  McEnery  Stuart  (1856-        ) 320 

8.  Henry  R.  James  (1843-        ) 320 

9.  Frances  Hodgson  Burnett  (1849-        )    .     .     .     .324 


xiv  Contents 

10.  Mary  N.  Murfree  (1850-        ) 326 

11.  Margaret  Wade  Deland  (1857-        ) 331 

12.  Hamlin  Garland  (1860-        ) 331 

13.  Ernest  Thompson-Seton  (i860-        ) 331 

14.  John  Fox,  Jr.  (1861-       ) 333 

15.  Mary  E.  Wilkins-Freeman  (1862-        )    .     .     .     .335 

16.  Edith  Wharton  (1862-        ) 335 

17.  Richard  Harding  DaVis  (1864-        ) 341 

18.  Frank  Norris  (1870-1902) 344 

19.  Willlam  Sidney  Porter  (O.  Henry)  (1867-1910)       .  350 

20.  Winston  Churchill  (1871-        ) 355 

21.  Jack  London  (1876-        ) 359 

II.    Prose — Non-Fiction 

1.  Lyman  Abbott  (1835-        ) 362 

2.  John  Burroughs  (1837-        ) 364 

3.  Hamilton  Wright  Mabie  (1845-        ) 366 

4.  Agnes  Repplier  (1857-        ) 368 

5.  Theodore  Roosevelt  (1858-        ) 368 

6.  Booker  T.  Washington  (1858-       ) 372 

7.  William  J.  Bryan  (i860-        ) 374 

8.  FiNLEY  Peter  Dunne  (1867-        ) 378 

9.  Charles  Willlam  Eliot  (1834-        ) 380 

10.  Thomas  R.  Lounsbury  (1838-       ) 385 

11.  George  Herbert  Palmer  (1842-        ) 387 

12.  Arlo  Bates  (1850-        ) 391 

13.  David  Starr  Jordan  (1851-       ) 393 

14.  Brander  Matthews  (1852-       ) 395 


Contents  xv 


PAGE 


15.  Henry  van  Dyke  (1852-       ) .  400 

16.  Barrett  Wendell  (1855-        ).......  405 

17.  WooDROw  Wilson  (1856-        ) 406 

18.  Nicholas  Murray  Butler  (1862-       )      .     .     .     .  409 

19.  Edward  Alsworth  Ross  (1866-       )    .     .     .,    .     .411 

III.    Poetry 

1.  Edmund  Clarence  Stedman  (i 833-1 908)   .     .     .     .415 

2.  Richard  Watson  Gilder  (i 844-1 909) 415 

3.  Joaquin  Miller  (1841-1913) 416 

4.  Will  Carleton  (1845-1912) 417 

5.  Eugene  Field  (i 850-1 895) 417 

6.  Edwin  Markham  (1852-        ) 419 

7.  James  Whitcomb  Riley  (1853-        ) 421 

8.  Samuel  Minturn  Peck  (1854-       )       ......  425 

9.  Edith  Thomas  (1854-        ) 425 

10.  Henry  Cuyler  Bunner  (1855-1896) 427 

11.  Ella  Wheeler  Wilcox  (1855-       ) 429 

12.  George  E.  Woodberry  (1855-       ) 432 

13.  Harry  Thurston  Peck  (1856-1914) 433 

14.  Richard  Hovey  (i 864-1 900) 434 

15.  William  Vaughn  Moody  (1869-1910) 437 

16.  Paul  Lawrence  Dunbae  (187  2-1 906) 437 

17.  Josephine  Preston  Peabody  Marks  (1874-        )     .  438 

18.  Percy  MacKaye  (1875-       ) 43& 


xvi  Contents 

CHAPTER  VI 
Tendencies 

^  PAGE 

I.    The  American  Magazine 442 

II.    The  American  Short  Story 446 

III.    The  American  Drama 450 

Index 455 


AMERICAN  LITERATURE 

THROUGH 
ILLUSTRATIVE  READINGS 


AMERICAN  LITERATURE  THROUGH 
ILLUSTRATIVE  READINGS 

GENERAL   VIEW 

When  our  forefathers  came  to  America  theirs  was  the 
business  of  a  new  people  in  a  new  land.  The  work  of  the 
pioneer  lay  before  them,  the  conquering  of  a  continent. 
The  great  struggle  against  nature  and  man  at  first  occu- 
pied their  whole  attention;  the  forest  and  the  aborigines 
were  finally  subdued.  For  a  hundred  years  and  more 
thereafter  the  all-absorbing  task  was  the  making  of  towns, 
and  the  creation  of  larger  social  groups.  Next  occurred 
the  momentous  contest  with  kin  across  the  water,  the  result 
of  which  was  the  birth  of  a  nation.  And  then  all  thoughts 
were  turned  toward  devising  ways  and  means  for  the  gov- 
ernment of  a  free,  new  people. 

Thus,  during  two  hundred  years  of  occupation  of  the 
new  land  there  was  little  leisure  for  expressing  the  life  of 
the  people  in  literature.  But  then  came  the  marvelous 
growth  of  America  through  the  nineteenth  century,  when 
consciousness  of  self,  as  a  nation,  grew  stronger  with  the 
passing  years,  when  men  had  time  after  the  stress  and 
strain  of  the  early  days  to  reflect  upon  the  deeds  of  the  past 
and  to  cast  those  reflections  into  permanent  form.  It  is 
only  when  the  consciousness  of  kin  with  Englishmen  gives 
way  to  a  stronger  ^*  consciousness  of  kind"  with  Amer- 
icans that  a  true  American  literature  comes  into  being. 

1 


3'  '  American  Literature 

Hence  we  may  look  upon  the  output  before  the  nine- 
teenth century,  broadly  speaking,  as  preliminary  to, 
rather  than  as  an  integral  part  of,  American  literature. 
The  writings  of  this  period  fall  naturally  into  two  groups, 
those  of  the  Colonial  Epoch  and  those  of  the  Revolutionary 
Era,  respectively. 

Since  the  opening  of  the  nineteenth  century,  the  life  in 
America — political,  social,  and  industrial — has  created  a 
distinctive  type  of  people,  and  this  type  has  created  a  dis- 
tinctive literature.  From  this  time  on,  therefore,  we  may 
claim  an  American  literature  independent  of  that  of  En- 
gland, and  this  period  may  justly  be  called  the  National 
Era  in  the  history  of  American  letters. 


GENERAL   BIBLIOGRAPHY 

I.    HISTORY  OF  AMERICAN  LITERATURE 

Abernathy,  J.  W.:  American  Literature. 

Bronson,  W.  C:  A  Short  History  of  American  Literature, 

Burton,  R.:  Literary  Leaders  of  America. 

Cairns,  W.  B.:  American  Literature  for  Secondary  Schools, 

Halleck,  R.  p.:  History  of  American  Literature. 

Long,  W.  J.:  American  Literature. 

Macy,  J.:  The  Spirit  of  American  Literature, 

Newcomer,  A.  G.:  American  Literature. 

NiCHOL,  J.:  American  Literature. 

Pancoast,  H.  S.:  American  Literature. 

Richardson,  C.  F.:  American  Literature.     1607-1885.     2  vols. 

Sears,   Lorenzo:   American  Literature  in   the   Colonial   and 
National  Periods. 

SiMONDS,  A.  B.:  American  Song. 

SiMONDS,  W.  E. :  ^  Students'  History  of  American  Literature, 

Stedman,  E.  C:  Poets  of  America. 

Trent,   W.    P.:   American  Literature.     1 607-1 865.     ("Litera- 
tures of  the  World.") 

Tyler,  M.  C:  A  History  of  American  Literature  During  the 
Colonial  Time.     1607-1765.     2  vols. 
The  Literary  History  of  the  American  Revolution.    1 763-1 783 . 

Wendell,  B.:  ^  Literary  History  of  America. 

Whitcomb,'  S.  L.:  Chronological  Outlines  of  American  Litera- 
ture. 

II.    SPECIMENS  OF  AMERICAN  LITERATURE 

Brewer,  D.  J.:  The  World's  Best  Orations.     10  vols. 
Bronson,  W.  C:  American  Poems.     1625-1892. 
Bryan,  W.  J. :  The  World's  Famous  Orations.     10  vols. 
Bryant,  W.   C.  :  Library  of  Poetry  and  Song.     (British  and 

American.) 
Cairns,  W.  B.:  Selections  from  Early  American  Writers.     1607- 

1800. 
Carpenter,  G.  R.:  American  Prose. 

3 


4  American  Literature 

Denney,  Joseph  V.:  American  Public  Addresses. 
Depew,  cm.:  The  Library  of  Oratory.     15  vols. 
DuYCKiNCK,  E.  A.  AND  G.  L.i  Cyclopcedia  of  American  Litera- 
ture.    2  vols. 
Gilder,  Jeanette  L.:  Masterpieces  of  the  World's  Best  Litera- 

ture.     (British  and  American.) 
Harris,  J.  C:  American  Wit  and  Humor. 
Howard,  J.  R.:  One  Hundred  Best  American  Poems. 
Johnston,  A.,  and  Woods  urn,  J.  A. :  American  Orations.  4  vols. 
Knowles,  F.  L.:  The  Golden  Treasury  of  American  Songs  and 

Lyrics. 
Learned,  W.:  Treasury  of  American  Verse. 
Long,  A.  W.:  American  Poems.     1776-1900. 
Matthews,  B.:  Poems  of  American  Patriotism. 
Moore,  F.:  American  Eloquence. 

Songs  and  Ballads  of  the  American  Revolution. 
O'CoNNELL,  J.  M.:  Southern  Orators — Speeches  and  Orations. , 
Page,  C.  H.:  The  Chief  American  Poets. 

Songs  and  Lyrics. 
ScuDDER,  H.  E.:  American  Prose. 

American  Poetry. 
Spofford,  a.  R.,  and  Gibbon,  C:  Library  of  Choice  Literature, 

10  vols. 
Stedman,  E.  C:  An  American  Anthology. 
Stedman,  E.  C,  and  Hutchinson,  E.  M.:  Library  of  American 

Literature.     11  vols. 
Stevenson,  B.  E.:  Poems  of  American  History. 

The  Home  Book  of  Verse.     (British  and  American.) 
Trent,  W.  P. :  Southern  Writers.    Selections  in  Prose  and  Verse. 
Trent,  W.  P.,  and  Wells,  B.  W.:  Colonial  Prose  and  Poetry. 

1607-1775.     3  vols. 
Warner,  C.  D.:  Library  of  the  World's  Best  Literature. 
Weber,  W.  F.:  Selections  from  the  Southern  Poets, 


PART  I 
THE  PRELIMINARY  PERIOD 

CHAPTER  I 
THE  COLONIAL  EPOCH 

The  truism  that  the  literature  of  a  people  must  reflect 
the  life,  both  objective  and  subjective,  of  that  people  is 
well  illustrated  by  the  writings  of  the  early  settlers  of 
America.  They  were  Englishmen,  living  out  of  England. 
Their  ideas  and  ideals  were  brought  over  from  the  mother 
country.  Life  in  the  colonies  was  pioneer  on  the  one  hand 
and  religious  on  the  other;  the  writers  were,  roughly 
speaking,  either  aclyenturers^^r  ministers.  Hence  the 
literary  records  of  the  time  took  the  form  of  chronicles  or 
diaries  and  reKgious  homilies  or  sermons.  The  following 
selections  are  typical. 

I.  Captain  John  Smith  (i 580-1 631),  gentleman  adventurer 
and  soldier  of  fortune,  was  one  of  the  founders  of  Jamestown 
and  became  the  mainstay  of  the  Virginia  colony.  The  dra- 
matic story  of  Pocahontas  keeps  his  memory  green.  Though 
plain  and  blunt,  his  style  is  picturesque  and  graphic.  His 
True  Relation  of  stick  occurrences  and  accidents  of  note,  as  hath 
happened  in  Virginia  since  the  first  planting  of  that  colony  etc. 
was  the  first  English  book  produced  in  America.  It  was  pub- 
lished in  London  in  1608. 

(From  John  Smithes  True  Relation) 

Powhatan  understanding  we  detained  certaine  Salvages, 
sent  his  Daughter,  a  child  of  tenne  yeares  old,  which  not 

5 


6  American  Literature 

only  for  feature,  countenance,  and  proportion,  much  ex- 
ceedeth  any  of  the  rest  of  his  people,  but  for  wit,  and  spirit, 
the  only  Nonpariel  of  his  Country:  this  hee  sent  by  his 
most  trustie  messenger,  called  Rawhunt,  as  much  exceed- 
ing in  deformitie  of  person,  but  of  a  subtill  wit,  and  crafty 
understanding,  he  with  a  long  circumstance,  told  mee, 
how  well  Powhatan,  loved  and  respected  mee,  and  in  that 
I  should  not  doubt  any  way  of  his  kindnesse,  he  had  sent 
his  child,  which  he  most  esteemed,  to  see  me,  a  Deere,  and 
bread,  besides  for  a  present.  .  .  . 

Opechankanough,  sent  also  unto  us,  that  for  his  sake,  we 
would  release  two  that  were  his  friends,  and  for  a  token 
sent  me  his  shooting  Glove,  and  Bracer,  which  the  day 
our  men  was  taken  upon,  separating  himselfe  from  the  rest 
a  long  time,  intreated  to  speak  with  me.  ...  In  the 
afternoone  ...  we  guarded  them  as  before  to  the  Church, 
and  after  prayer,  gave  them  to  Pocahuntas,  the  Kings 
Daughter,  in  regard  of  her  fathers  kindnesse  in  sending  her: 
after  having  well  fed  them,  as  all  the  time  of  their  impris- 
onment, we  gave  them  their  bowes,  arrowes,  or  what  else 
they  had,  and  with  much  content,  sent  them  packing. 
Pocahuntas,  also  we  requited,  with  such  trifles  as  con- 
tented her,  to  tel  that  we  had  used  the  Paspaheyans  very 
kindly  in  so  releasing  them  .  .  .  two  dales  after,  a  Paspa- 
heyan,  came  to  shew  us  a  glistering  Minerall  stone:  and 
with  signes  demonstrating  it  to  be  in  great  aboundance, 
like  unto  Rockes,  with  some  dozen  more,  I  was  sent  to 
seeke  to  digge  some  quantitie,  and  the  Indian  to  conduct 
me:  but  suspecting  this  some  trick  to  delude  us,  for  to  get 
some  Copper  of  us,  or  with  some  ambuscado  to  betray  us, 
seeing  him  falter  in  his  tale,  beeing  two  miles  on  our 
way,  led  him  ashore,  where  abusing  us  from  place  to 
place,  and  so  seeking  either  to  have  drawne  us  with  him 
into  the  woods,  or  to  have  given  us  the  slippe;  I  shewed 
him  Copper,  which  I  promised  to  have  given  him,  if  he  had 
performed  his  promise,  but  for  his  scofl5ng  and  abusing  us, 
I  gave  twentie  lashes  with  a  Rope,  and  his  bowes  and 
arrowes,  bidding  him  shoote  if  he  durst,  and  so  let  him  goe. 

In  all  this  time,  our  men  being  all  or  the  most  part  well 


The  Colonial  Epoch  7 

recovered,  and  we  not  willing  to  trifle  away  more  time  then 
necessitie  enforced  us  unto,  we  thought  good  for  the  bet- 
ter content  of  the  adventurers,  in  some  reasonable  sort 
to  fraight  home  Maister  Nelson  with  Cedar  wood,  about 
which,  our  men  going  with  willing  minds,  was  in  very  good 
time  effected,  and  the  ship  sent  for  England;  wee  now 
remaining  being  in  good  health,  all  our  men  wel  con- 
tented, free  from  mutinies,  in  love  one  with  another,  and 
as  we  hope  in  a  continual!  peace  with  the  Indians,  where 
we  doubt  not  but  by  God's  gracious  assistance, — to  see 
our  Nation  to  enioy  a  Country,  not  onely  exceeding  pleas- 
ant for  habitation,  but  also  very  profitable  for  comerce 
in  generall,  no  doubt  pleasing  to  almightie  God,  honour- 
able to  our  gracious  Soveraigne,  and  commodious  gen- 
erally to  the  whole  Kingdome. 

2.  William  Strachey,  an  English  gentleman  who  died  about 
1 617,  gives  us  an  account  of  his  perilous  voyage  to  Jamestown, 
which  is  interesting  because  Shakespeare  was  probably  influ- 
enced by  it  in  his  description  of  the  wreck  in  The  Tempest. 

A  Storm  off  the  Bermudas 

(From  A   True  Reportory  of  the  Wracke  and  Redemption  of  Sir 
Thomas  Gates.     1610) 

On  St.  James  his  day,  July  24,  being  Monday  (prepar- 
ing for  no  less  all  the  black  night  before)  the  clouds  gather- 
ing thick  upon  us,  and  the  winds  singing  and  whistling  most 
unusually,  ...  a  dreadful  storm  and  hideous  began  to 
blow  from  out  the  Northeast,  which,  swelling  and  roaring 
as  it  were  by  fits,  some  hours  with  more  violence  than  others, 
at  length  did  beat  all  light  from  heaven,  which  like  an  hell 
of  darkness,  turned  black  upon  us.  .  .  . 

For  four  and  twenty  hours  the  storm,  in  a  restless  tumult, 
had  blown  so  exceedingly,  as  we  could  not  apprehend  in 
our  imaginations  any  possibility  of  greater  violence,  yet 
did  we  still  find  it,  not  only  more  terrible,  but  more  con- 
stant, fury  added  to  fury,  .  .  .  nothing  heard  thajt  could 
give  comfort,  nothing  seen  that  might  encourage  hope.  .  .   . 

Our  sails,  wound  up,  lay  without  their  use,  and  .  .  . 


8  American  Literature 

the  Sea  swelled  above  the  Clouds,  and  gave  battle  unto 
heaven.  It  could  not  be  said  to  rain,  the  waters  like 
whole  Rivers  did  flood  in  the  ayre.  .  .  .  What  shall  I  say  ? 
Winds  and  Seas  were  as  mad  as  fury  and  rage  could  make 
them.  .  .  . 

Once  so  huge  a  Sea  brake  upon  the  poop  and  quarter, 
upon  us,  as  it  covered  our  ship  from  stern  to  stem,  like  a 
garment  or  a  vast  cloud.  It  filled  her  brimful  for  a  while 
within,  from  the  hatches  up  to  the  spar  deck.  .  .  . 

During  all  this  time  the  heavens  looked  so  black  upon 
us,  that  it  was  not  possible  the  elevation  of  the  Pole  might 
be  observed;  not  a  star  by  night  nor  sunbeam  by  day 
was  to  be  seen.  Only  upon  the  Thursday  night.  Sir  George 
Summers  being  upon  the  watch,  had  an  apparition  of  a 
little  round  light,  like  a  faint  star,  trembling  and  stream- 
ing along  with  a  sparkling  blaze,  half  the  height  upon  the 
mainmast,  and  shooting  sometimes  from  shroud  to  shroud, 
tempting  to  settle  as  it  were  upon  any  of  the  four  shrouds, 
and  for  three  or  four  hours  together,  or  rather  more,  half 
the  night  it  kept  with  us,  running  sometimes  along  the 
mainyard  to  the  very  end,  and  then  returning.  At  which 
Sir  George  Summers  called  divers  about  him  and  showed 
them  the  same,  who  observed  it  with  much  wonder  and 
carefulness.  But  upon  a  sudden,  towards  the  morning 
watch,  they  lost  the  sight  of  it  and  knew  not  what  way  it 
made.  .  .  . 

Tuesday  noon  till  Friday  noon  we  bailed  and  pumped 
two  thousand  tun,  and  yet,  do  what  we  could,  when  our 
ship  held  least  in  her  (after  Tuesday  night  second  watch) 
she  bore  ten  foot  deep,  .  .  .  and  it  being  now  Friday,  the 
fourth  morning,  it  wanted  little  but  that  there  had  been 
a  general  determination,  to  have  shut  up  hatches  and 
commending  our  sinful  souls  to  God,  committed  the  ship 
to  the  mercy  of  the  sea.  Surely  that  night  we  must  have 
done  it,  and  that  night  had  we  then  perished;  but  see  the 
goodness  and  sweet  introduction  of  better  hope  by  our 
merciful  God  given  unto  us.  Sir  George  Summers,  when 
no  man  dreamed  of  such  happiness,  had  discovered  and 
cried  "Land!"     Indeed  the  morning  now  three  quarters 


The  Colonial  Epoch  9 

spent,  had  won  a  little  clearness  from  the  days  before,  and 
it  being  better  surveyed,  the  very  trees  were  seen  to  move 
with  the  wind  upon  the  shore-side. 

(Compare  The  Tempest,  Act  I,  Scene  I.) 

3.  The  Bay  Psalm  Book,  printed  at  Cambridge  m  1640,  was 
the  first  English  book  published  in  America.  It  was  a  metrical 
version  of  the  Psalms  of  David,  made  by  three  divines  of  colo- 
nial fame — Richard  Mather,  Thomas  Welde,  and  John  Eliot. 
The  verse  is  stilted  and  inartistic,  "a  sad  mechanic  exercise" 
indeed,  as  will  be  seen  from  the  following. 

PSALME  XIX 
TO  THE  CHIEFE  MUSICIAN  A  PSALME   OF  DAVID 

The  heavens  doe  declare 

the  majesty  of  God: 
also  the  firmament  shews  forth 

his  handy-work  abroad. 

2.  Day  speaks  to  day,  knowledge 

night  hath  to  night  declared. 

3.  There  neither  speach  nor  language  is, 

where  their  voyce  is  not  heard. 

4.  Through  all  the  earth  their  line 

is  gone  forth,  &  unto 
the  utmost  end  of  all  the  world, 

their  speaches  reach  also: 
A  Tabernacle  hee 

in  them  pitcht  for  the  Sun. 

5.  Who  Bridegroom  like  from's  chamber  goes 

glad  Giants-race  to  run. 

6.  From  heavens  utmost  end, 

his  course  and  compassing; 
to  ends  of  it,  &  from  the  heat 
thereof  is  hid  nothing. 


10  American  Literature 


PSALME  C 

Make  yee  a  joyfull  sounding  noyse 
unto  Jehovah,  all  the  earth: 

2.  Serve  yee  Jehovah  with  gladnes: 
before  his  presence  come  with  mirth. 

3.  Know,  that  Jehovah  he  is  God, 
who  hath  us  formed  it  is  hee, 

&  not  ourselves :  his  owne  people 
&  sheepe  of  his  pasture  are  wee. 

4.  Enter  into  his  gates  with  prayse, 
into  his  Courts  with  thankfuUnes: 
make  yee  confession  unto  him, 

&  his  name  reverently  blesse. 

5.        Because  Jehovah  he  is  good, 
for  evermore  is  his  mercy: 
&  unto  generations  all 
continue  doth  his  verity. 
(Compare  the  Psalms) 

4.  Anne  Bradstreet  (1613-1672),  extravagantly  called  the 
"Tenth  Muse  lately  sprung  up  in  America,"  was  the  daughter 
of  a  Puritan  soldier  and  the  wife  of  a  Puritan  gentleman  who 
was  at  one  time  governor  of  Massachusetts.  Her  literary 
work  shows  the  influence  of  contemporary  English  poets, 
especially  of  John  Donne  and  George  Herbert.  Her  verses 
are  strained  and  artificial  in  style  but  breathe  the  true  Puritan 
spirit  of  her  surroundings. 

(From  Contemplations) 

Sometime  now  past  in  the  Autumnal  Tide, 
When  Phoebus  wanted  but  one  hour  to  bed, 

The  trees  all  richly  clad,  yet  void  of  pride, 
Were  gilded  o'er  by  his  rich  golden  head. 

Their  leaves  and  fruits  seem'd  painted,  but  was  true 

Of  green,  of  red,  of  yellow,  mixed  hue, 

Rapt  were  my  senses  at  this  delectable  view. 


The  Colonial  Epoch  11 

I  wist  not  what  to  wish,  yet  sure,  thought  I, 

If  so  much  excellence  abide  below, 
How  excellent  is  He  that  dwells  on  high ! 

Whose  power  and  beauty  by  his  works  we  know; 
Sure  he  is  goodness,  wisdom,  glory,  light, 
That  hath  this  underworld  so  richly  dight: 
More  Heaven  than  Earth  was  here,  no  winter  and  no  night. 

Then  on  a  stately  oak  I  cast  mine  eye, 

Whose  ruffling  top  the  clouds  seem'd  to  aspire; 

How  long  since  thou  wast  in  thine  infancy  ? 

Thy  strength,  and  stature,  more  thy  years  admire, 

Hath  hundred  winters  past  since  thou  wast  born, 

Or  thousand  since  thou  breakest  thy  shell  of  horn? 

If  so,  all  these  as  naught  Eternity  doth  scorn. 

Then  higher  on  the  glistering  Sun  I  gaz'd 
Whose  beams  were  shaded  by  the  leafy  tree; 

The  more  I  look'd,  the  more  I  grew  amaz'd, 
And  softly  said,  what  glory's  like  to  thee? 

Soul  of  this  world,  this  Universe's  eye, 

No  wonder,  some  made  thee  a  Deity: 

Hag  I  not  better  known  (alas),  the  same  had  I. 


Art  thou  so  full  of  glory,  that  no  eye 

Hath  strength,  thy  shining  rays  once  to  behold? 
And  is  thy  splendid  throne  erect  so  high, 

As  to  approach  it,  can  no  earthly  mould  ? 
How  full  of  glory  then  must  thy  Creator  be, 
Who  gave  this  bright  light  lustre  unto  thee ! 
Admir'd,  ador'd  forever,  be  that  Majesty. 


When  I  behold  the  heavens  as  in  their  prime, 

And  then  the  earth  (though  old)  still  clad  in  green, 

The  stones  and  trees,  insensible  of  time, 
Nor  age  nor  wrinkle  on  their  front  are  seen; 

If  winter  come,  and  greenness  then  do  fade, 


12  American  Literature 

A  Spring  returns,  and  they  more  youthful  made; 
But  Man  grows  old,  lies  down,  remains  where  once  he's 
laid. 


0  Time,  the  fatal  wrack  of  mortal  things, 
That  draws  oblivion's  curtains  over  Kings, 

Their  sumptuous  monuments,  men  know  them  not, 
Their  names  without  a  record  are  forgot. 

Their  parts,  their  ports,  their  pomp's  all  laid  in  th'  dust. 

Nor  wit,  nor  gold,  nor  buildings  'scape  time's  rust; 
But  he  whose  name  is  grav'd  in  the  white  stone 
Shall  last  and  shine  when  all  of  these  are  gone. 

5.  The  New  England  Primer  was  published  between  1687 
and  1690  by  one  Benjamin  Harris  at  his  coffee-house  and  book- 
store in  Boston  "by  the  Town  Pump  near  the  Change."  It 
contained  the  alphabet,  lists  of  words,  and  short  prayers.  An 
illustration  is  given  below. 

A    In  Adam's  Fall 
We  sinned  all. 

B     Heaven  to  find. 
The  Bible  Mind. 

C     Christ  crucify'd 
For  sinners  dy'd. 

D    The  Deluge  drown'd 
The  Earth  around. 

E     Elijah  hid 

By  Ravens  fed. 

F     The  judgment  made 
Felix  afraid. 

G    As  runs  the  Glass, 
Our  Life  doth  pass. 

H    My  Book  and  Heart 
Must  never  part. 


The  Colonial  Epoch  IS 

I     Job  feels  the  Rod, — 
Yet  Blesses  God. 

K    Proud  Korah's  troop 
Was  swallowed  up. 

6.  Samuel  Sewall  (165  2- 1730)  served  at  one  time  as  Chief 
Justice  of  the  Supreme  Court  of  Massachusetts.  He  was  one  of 
the  judges  who  condemned  the  victims  of  the  Salem  witchcraft 
delusion.  For  this  act  he  afterward  repented  and  did  penance 
by  an  annual  fast.  From  1673  to  1729  he  kept  a  diary  which 
may  be  compared  with  that  of  Pepys  on  account  of  its  piquant 
style  and  its  unconscious  humor.    An  extract  follows. 

The  Courting  of  Madam  Winthrop 
(From  The  Sewall  Papers,  volume  III) 

Octobf  31.  At  night  I  visited  Madam  Winthrop  about 
6  p.  m.  They  told  me  she  was  gon  to  Madam  Mico's. 
I  went  thither  and  found  she  was  gon;  so  return 'd  to  her 
house,  read  the  Epistles  to  the  Galatians,  Ephesians  in 
Mr.  Eyre's  Latin  Bible  .  .  .  left  the  Gazett  in  the  Bible, 
which  told  Sarah  of,  bid  her  present  my  Service  to  Mrs. 
Winthrop,  and  tell  her  I  had  been  to  wait  on  her  if  she  had 
been  at  home.  ... 

Novr  4^^  Friday,  Went  again,  about  7.  a-clock;  found 
there  Mr.  John  Walley  and  his  wife:  sat  discoursing 
pleasantly.  .  .  .  Madam  W.  serv'd  Comfeits  to  us.  After 
a-while  a  Table  was  spread,  and  Supper  was  set.  I  urg'd 
Mr.  Walley  to  Crave  a  Blessing;  but  he  put  it  upon  me. 
About  9.  they  went  away.  I  ask'd  Madam  what  fash- 
ioned Neck-lace  I  should  present  her  with,  She  said,  None 
at  all.  I  ask'd  her  Whereabout  we  left  off  last  time;  men- 
tioned what  I  had  offer'd  to  give  her;  Ask'd  her  what  she 
would  give  me;  She  said  she  could  not  Change  her  Condi- 
tion: She  had  said  so  from  the  beginning;  could  not  be 
so  far  from  her  Children.  .  .  .  Quoted  the  Apostle  Paul 
affirming  that  a  single  Life  was  better  than  a  Married.  I 
answer'd  That  was  for  the  present  Distress.     Said  she 


14  American  Literature 

had  not  pleasure  in  things  of  that  nature  as  formerly:  I 
said,  you  are  the  fitter  to  make  me  a  Wife.  If  she  held  in 
that  mind,  I  must  go  home  and  bewail  my  Rashness  in 
making  more  haste  than  good  Speed.  However,  con- 
sidering the  Supper,  I  desired  her  to  be  within  next  Mon- 
day night,  if  we  liv'd  so  long.  Assented.  .  .  .  About  lo. 
I  said  I  would  not  disturb  the  good  orders  of  her  House, 
and  came  away.  She  not  seeming  pleas'd  with  my  Com- 
ing away.  .  .  . 

Monday,  Nov^7^^  ...  I  went  to  Mad.  Winthrop;  found 
her  rocking  her  Uttle  Katee  in  the  Cradle.  I  excus'd  my 
coming  so  late  (near  Eight).  She  set  me  an  arm'd  Chair 
and  Cusheon;  and  so  the  Cradle  was  between  her  arm'd 
chair  and  mine.  Gave  her  the  remnant  of  my  Almonds; 
She  did  not  eat  of  them  as  before;  but  laid  them  away; 
I  said  I  came  to  enquire  whether  she  had  alter'd  her  mind 
since  Friday,  or  remained  of  the  same  mind  still.  She 
said.  Thereabouts.  I  told  her  I  loved  her,  and  was  so  fond 
as  to  think  that  she  loved  me :  she  said  had  a  great  respect 
for  me.  I  told  her,  I  had  made  her  an  offer,  without  ask- 
ing any  advice;  she  had  so  many  to  advise  with,  that  'twas 
an  hindrance.  The  Fire  was  come  to  one  short  Brand 
besides  the  Block,  which  Brand  was  set  up  in  end;  at 
last  it  fell  to  pieces,  and  no  Recruit  was  made:  She  gave 
me  a  Glass  of  Wine.  I  think  I  repeated  again  that  I 
would  go  home  and  bewail  my  Rashness  in  making  more 
haste  than  good  Speed.  I  would  endeavour  to  contain 
myself,  and  not  go  on  to  sollicit  her  to  do  that  which  she 
could  not  Consent  to.  Took  leave  of  her.  As  came  down 
the  steps  she  bid  me  have  a  Care.  Treated  me  Cour- 
teously. Told  her  she  had  enter'd  the  4th  year  of  her 
Widowhood.  I  had  given  her  the  News-Letter  before; 
I  did  not  bid  her  draw  off  her  Glove  as  sometime  I  had 
done.  Her  Dress  was  not  so  clean  as  sometime  it  had 
been.     Jehovah  jireh ! 

7.  The  Mathers,  a  remarkable  New  England  family,  pro- 
duced three  of  the  leading  thinkers  of  colonial  days.  They 
were  all  ministers,  and  each  attained  greater  fame  than  his 
predecessor.     Richard  Mather   (i 596-1669)   came    to    Boston 


The  Colonial  Epoch  15 

in  1635.  His  name  is  associated  with  the  Bay  Psalm  Book  lor 
which  he  wrote  the  preface.  His  son,  Increase  Mather  (1639- 
1723),  was  for  fifty-nine  years  pastor  of  the  old  North  Church  in 
Boston;  for  sixteen  years  he  was  president  of  Harvard  College. 
But  Cotton  Mather  (1663-1728)  was  the  greatest  representa- 
tive of  his  family  in  literary  and  theological  colonial  New  En- 
gland.    An  old  epitaph  to  this  effect  runs  thus: 

"Under  this  stone  lies  Richard  Mather 
Who  had  a  son  greater  than  his  father, 
And  eke  a  grandson  greater  than  either.'* 

He  has  been  styled  ''  the  literary  behemoth  of  New  England," 
and  his  learning  was  indeed  prodigious.  It  was  said  that  he 
spent  ten  hours  a  day  in  his  study.  During  his  lifetime  he 
published  four  hundred  books.  His  greatest  work  is  Magnalia 
Christi  Americana  or  The  Great  Acts  of  Christ  in  America. 
The  first  sentence  quoted  below  sounds  the  note  of  the  whole. 

(From  the  Magnalia) 

I  write  the  Wonders  of  the  Christian  Religion,  flying 
from  the  Depravations  of  Europe,  to  the  American  Strand: 
And,  assisted  by  the  Holy  Author  of  that  Religion,  I  do, 
with  all  Conscience  of  Truth,  required  therein  by  Him, 
who  is  the  Truth  it  self,  report  the  Wonderful  Displays  of. 
His  Infinite  Power,  Wisdom,  Goodness,  and  Faithfulness, 
wherewith  His  Divine  Providence  hath  Irradiated  an  Indian 
Wilderness. 

The  Last  Days  of  Increase  Mather 

(From  Memoirs  of  Remarkables  in  the  Life  and  the  Death  of  the  Ever- 
Memorable  Dr.  Increase  Mather.     1724) 

Old  age  came  on.  But  what  an  one!  How  bright! 
How  wise!  How  strong!  And  in  what  an  uncommon 
measure  serviceable!  He  had  been  an  old  man  while  he 
was  yet  a  young  man.  .  .  .  And  now  he  was  an  old  man 
his  public  performances  had  a  vigor  in  them  which  'tis 
a  rare  thing  to  see  a  young  man  have  any  thing  equal  to. 


16  American  Literature 

Though  in  the  prefaces  of  the  useful  books  which  he 
now  published  he  repeated  an  ungrantable  request  unto 
his  friends,  *'no  longer  to  pray  for  his  Hfe,"  they  only 
prayed  the  more  for  it.  When  he  had  finished  forty-nine 
years  of  his  public  ministry  he  preached  a  sermon  full  of 
rare  and  rich  thoughts  upon  "A  Jubilee ";  and  he  requested 
for  a  dismission  from  any  further  public  labors.  His 
flock  prized  them  too  much  to  hear  of  that;  but  anon, 
when  they  saw  the  proper  time  for  it,  that  they  might 
render  his  old  age  as  easy  as  might  be  to  him,  they  wisely 
and  kindly  voted  it,  *'That  the  labors  of  the  pulpit  should 
be  expected  from  him  only  when  he  should  find  himself 
able  and  incHned  for  them."  .  .  . 

But  it  is  now  time  for  me  to  tell  that  after  fourscore  the 
report  of  Moses  did  no  longer  want  confirmation  with  him. 
He  began  to  be  more  sensible  of  those  decays  which  .  .  . 
caused  him  several  times  to  say  to  me:  *'Be  sure,  you  don't 
pray  that  you  may  Uve  beyond  fourscore  !"  .  .  . 

And  now,  he  that  had  wished  for  "sufferings  for  the 
Lord,"  must  be  content  with  sufferings  from  the  Lord. 
Even  these  borne  with  the  faith  and  patience  of  the  saints 
have  a  sort  of  martyrdom  in  them,  and  will  add  unto  the 
"far  more  exceeding  and  eternal  weight  of  glory." 

On  September  25th,  he  did  with  an  excellent  and  pathetic 
prayer,  in  a  mighty  auditory,  conclude  a  "day  of  prayer" 
kept  by  his  church,  to  obtain  a  good  success  of  the  Gospel 
and  the  growth  of  real  and  vital  piety,  with  plentiful  effu- 
sions of  the  good  Spirit,  especially  upon  the  "Rising  Gen- 
eration." Within  two  days  after  this  he  fell  into  an 
apoplectic  sort  of  deHquium  .  .  .  out  of  which  he  recovered 
in  a  few  minutes;  but  it  so  enfeebled  him,  that  he  never 
went  abroad  any  more. 

However,  his  "wisdom  yet  remained  with  him." 

8.  Jonathan  Edwards  (1703-1758),  a  New  England  preacher 
and  missionary  to  the  Indians,  was  one  of  the  great  philoso- 
phers of  his  age.  He  wrote  a  monumental  work  on  the  Freedom 
of  the  Will.  He  was  called  to  be  president  of  Princeton  College 
shortly  before  his  death.  Holmes's  poem.  The  Deacon's  Mas- 
terpiece, written  in  1857,  about  one  hundred  years  after  the 


The  Colonial  Epoch  17 

death  of  Edwards,  is,  says  Professor  Barrett  Wendell,  "  one  of 
the  most  pitiless  satires  in  our  language  on  Edwards  and  the 
system  of  thought  for  which  he  stood." 

(From  Thoughts  on  a  Thunderstorm.    The  personal  narrative  found 
among  his  MSS.) 

And  as  I  was  walking  there,  and  looking  upon  the  sky  and 
clouds,  there  came  into  my  mind  so  sweet  a  sense  of  the 
glorious  majesty  and  grace  of  God,  as  I  know  not  how  to 
express.  .  .  .  God's  excellency,  his  wisdom,  his  purity 
and  love,  seemed  to  appear  in  everything:  in  the  sun,  moon, 
and  stars:  in  the  clouds  and  blue  sky;  in  the  grass,  flowers, 
trees;  in  the  water  and  all  nature;  which  used  greatly  to 
fix  my  mind.  I  often  used  to  sit  and  view  the  moon  for 
a  long  time;  and  in  the  day  spent  much  time  in  viewing  the 
clouds  and  sky,  to  behold  the  sweet  glory  of  God  in  these 
things:  in  the  meantime,  singing  forth,  with  a  low  voice, 
my  contemplations  of  the  Creator  and  Redeemer.  .  .  . 
Before,  I  used  to  be  uncommonly  terrified  with  thunder; 
and  to  be  struck  with  terror  when  I  saw  a  thunder-storm 
rising;  but  now,  on  the  contrary,  it  rejoiced  me.  I  felt 
God  ...  at  the  first  appearance  of  a  thunder-storm;  and 
used  to  take  the  opportunity,  at  such  times,  to  fix  myself  in 
order  to  view  the  clouds  and  see  the  lightnings  play,  and 
hear  the  majestic  and  awful  voice  of  God's  thunder.  .  .  . 

(Read  Holmes's  The  Deacori's  Masterpiece,  infra,  pp. 
180-183.) 

9.  John  Woolman  (17 20-1 772)  was  a  New  Jersey  Quaker 
who  left  a  Journal  which  is  perhaps  the  only  American  book 
of  the  eighteenth  century  outside  of  Franklin's  Autobiography 
that  is  still  read  with  pleasure.  It  was  edited  by  Whittier  in 
1 87 1.  Charles  Lamb  said,  "  Get  the  writings  of  John  Wool- 
man  by  heart  and  love  the  early  Quakers."  The  following 
extract  is  typical. 

(From  On  the  Keeping  of  Slaves) 

If  we  seriously  consider  that  Kberty  is  the  right  of  inno- 
cent men;  that  the  mighty  God  is  a  refuge  for  the  oppressed; 
that  in  reahty  we  are  indebted  to  them  [our  slaves];  that 
they  being  set  free  are  still  liable  to  the  penalties'  of  our 


18  American  Literature 

laws,  and  as  likely  to  have  punishment  for  their  crimes  as 
other  people;  this  may  answer  all  our  objections.  And  to 
retain  them  in  perpetual  servitude,  without  just  cause 
for  it,  will  produce  effects,  in  the  event,  more  grievous  than 
setting  them  free  would  do,  when  a  real  love  to  truth  and 
equity  was  the  motive  to  it.  .  .  . 

There  is  a  principle  which  is  pure  placed  in  the  human 
mind,  which  in  different  places  and  ages  hath  had  different 
names;  it  is,  however,  pure,  and  proceeds  from  God.  It 
is  deep  and  inward,  confined  to  no  forms  of  rehgion,  nor 
excluded  from  any,  where  the  heart  stands  in  perfect  sin- 
cerity. In  whomsoever  this  takes  root  and  grows,  of  what 
nation  soever,  they  become  brethren,  in  the  best  sense  of 
the  expression.  Using  ourselves  to  take  ways  which  ap- 
pear most  easy  to  us,  when  inconsistent  with  that  purity 
which  is  without  beginning,  we  thereby  set  up  a  govern- 
ment of  our  own,  and  deny  obedience  to  Him  whose  ser- 
vice is  true  liberty. 

He  that  hath  a  servant,  made  so  wrongfully,  knd  knows 
it  to  be  so,  when  he  treats  him  otherwise  than  a  free  man, 
when  he  reaps  the  benefit  of  his  labor  without  paying  him 
such  wages  as  are  reasonably  due  to  free  men  for  the  like 
service,  clothes  excepted,  these  things  though  done  in 
calmness,  without  any  show  of  disorder,  do  yet  deprave 
the  mind  in  like  manner  and  with  as  great  certainty  as 
prevailing  cold  congeals  water.  These  steps  taken  by 
masters,  and  their  conduct  striking  the  minds  of  their 
children  whilst  young,  leave  less  room  for  that  which  is 
good  to  work  upon  them.  The  customs  of  their  parents, 
their  neighbors,  and  the  people  with  whom  they  converse, 
working  upon  their  minds,  and  they,  from  thence,  con- 
ceiving ideas  of  things  and  modes  of  conduct,  the  entrance 
into  their  hearts  becomes,  in  a  great  measure,  shut  up 
against  the  gentle  movings  of  uncreated  purity. 


Negroes  are  our  fellow-creatures,  and  their  present  con- 
dition amongst  us  requires  our  serious  consideration.  We 
know  not  the  time  when  those  scales  in  which  mountains 


The  Colonial  Epoch  19 

are  weighed  may  turn.  The  Parent  of  mankind  is  gra- 
cious, his  care  is  over  his  smallest  creatures,  and  a  multi- 
tude of  men  escape  not  his  notice.  And  though  many  of 
them  are  trodden  down  and  despised,  yet  he  remembers 
them;  he  seeth  their  affliction,  and  looketh  upon  the  spread- 
ing increasing  exaltation  of  the  oppressor.  He  turns  the 
channels  of  power,  humbles  the  most  haughty  people,  and 
gives  dehverance  to  the  oppressed  at  such  periods  as  are 
consistent  with  his  infinite  justice  and  goodness.  And 
wherever  gain  is  preferred  to  equity,  and  wrong  things 
publicly  encouraged  to  that  degree  that  wickedness  takes 
root  and  spreads  wide  amongst  the  inhabitants  of  a  coun- 
try, there  is  real  cause  for  sorrow  to  all  such  whose  love  to 
mankind  stands  on  a  true  principle  and  who  wisely  con- 
sider the  end  and  event  of  things. 

BIBLIOGRAPHY 

I.    For  Further  Illustration 

Bradstreet:  The  Works  of  Anne  Bradstreet  in  Prose  and  Verse. 

Edited  by  John  Harvard  Ellis,  Charlestown,  1867. 
Cairns,  W.  B.:  Selections  from  Early  American  Writers.     (1607- 

1800.) 
Carpenter,  G.  R.:  American  Prose. 

Duyckinck,  E.  A.  and  G.  L.:  Cyclopcedia  of  American  Literature, 
Ford,  Paul  Leicester:    The  New  England  Primer.     History  of  its 

Origin  and  Development. 
Stedman  and  Hutchinson:  Library  of  American  Literature.     (Vols. 

I  and  II.) 
Trent  and  Wells:  Colonial  Prose  and  Poetry.     (Vols.  I,  II,  III.) 
Woolman,  John:  John   Woolman's  Journal  with  Introduction  by 

J.  G.  Whittier. 

II.    For  the  Period 

Austin,  Mrs.  J.  G. :  Standish  of  Standish. 
Hawthorne,  N. :  The  Scarlet  Letter. 
Hemans,  Mrs. :  The  Landing  of  the  Pilgrims. 
Holmes,  O.  W.:  The  Deacon^ s  Masterpiece. 

The  Broomstick  Train. 
Johnston,  Mary:  To  Have  and  to  Hold. 


20  American  Literature 

Lamb,  Charles:  A  Quakers^  Meeting. 

Longfellow,  H.  W.:  The  Courtship  of  Miles  Standish. 

The  Phantom  Ship. 
Shore,  W.  Teignmouth:  John  Woolman:  His  Life  and  Our  Times, 
Stimson,  F.  J.:  King  Noanett. 
Stowe,  H.  B.:  The  Mayflower. 
Whittier,  J.  G.:  The  Prophecy  of  Samuel  Sewall. 

The  Garrison  of  Cape  Ann. 

(See  also  General  Bibliography,  supra,  p.  3.) 


CHAPTER  II 
THE  REVOLUTIONARY  ERA 

/.    Orations  and  State  Papers 

Most  of  the  writings  of  the  ReYolutionary  era  savored 
of  the  life.of  the  times.  Pamphlets  and  essays,  embodying 
petitions,  appeals,  or  speeches,  were  the  popular  form  in 
which  the  literature  of  the  day  reflected  the  political 
struggle  of  the  age.  Among  the  defenders  of  liberty  of  the 
Revolutionary  and  post-Revolutionary  periods  were  James 
Otis,  Benjamin  Franklin,  George  Washington,  Patrick 
Henry,  Thomas  Paine,  Alexander  Hamilton,  and  Thomas 
Jefferson.  The  writings  of  these  men  bear  no  mean  com- 
parison with  the  speeches  and  political  pamphlets  of  the 
great  contemporary  English  statesmen,  Chatham,  Fox,  and 
Burke. 

I.  James  Otis  (1725-1783)  was  a  member  of  the  Massa- 
chusetts House  of  Representatives,  and  a  delegate  to  the  Stamp 
Act  Congress  in  1765.  He  is  known  as  the  Patrick  Henry  of 
New  England.  His  argument  against  Writs  of  Assistance,  de- 
livered before  the  Superior  Court  in  Boston  in  1761,  is  often 
called  the  Prologue  to  the  Revolution.  John  Adams,  who 
likened  Otis  to  a  flame  of  fire,  said  that  in  this  oration  Amer- 
ican independence  was  born. 

In  Opposition  to  Writs  of  Assistance 

(From  Otis^s  Speech) 

May  it  please  your  honors,  I  was  desired  by  one  of  the 
court  to  look  unto  the  books,  and  consider  the  question 

21 


22  American  Literature 

now  before  them  concerning  writs  of  assistance.  I  have, 
accordingly,  considered  it,  and  now  appear  not  only  in 
obedience  to  your  order,  but  likewise  in  behalf  of  the  in- 
habitants of  this  town,  who  have  presented  another  peti- 
tion, and  out  of  regard  to  the  Hberties  of  the  subject.  And 
I  take  this  opportunity  to  declare  that,  whether  under  a 
fee  or  not  (for  in  such  a  cause  as  this  I  despise  a  fee),  I  will 
to  my  dying  day  oppose  with  all  the  powers  and  faculties 
God  has  given  me  all  such  instruments  of  slavery  on  the 
one  hand,  and  villainy  on  the  other,  as  this  writ  of  assist- 
ance is. 

It  appears  to  me  the  worst  instrument  of  arbitrary 
power,  the  most  destructive  of  EngHsh  liberty  and  the 
fundamental  principles  of  law,  that  ever  was  found  in  an 
English  law  book.  I  must,  therefore,  beg  your  honors' 
patience  and  attention  to  the  whole  range  of  argument 
that  may,  perhaps,  appear  uncommon  in  many  things,  as 
well  as  to  points  of  learning  that  are  more  remote  and 
unusual;  that  the  whole  tendency  of  my  design  may  the 
more  easily  be  perceived,  the  conclusions  better  descend, 
and  the  force  of  them  be  better  felt. 


Your  honors  will  find  in  the  old  books  concerning  the 
ofi&ce  of  a  justice  of  the  peace  precedents  of  general  war- 
rants to  search  suspected  houses.  But  in  more  modern 
books,  you  will  find  only  special  warrants  to  search  such 
and  such  houses,  specially  named,  in  which  the  com- 
plainant has  before  sworn  that  he  suspects  his  goods  are 
concealed;  and  will  find  it  adjudged  that  special  warrants 
only  are  legal.  In  the  same  manner  I  rely  on  it,  that  the 
writ  prayed  for  in  this  petition,  being  general,  is  illegal. 
It  is  a  power  that  places  the  hberty  of  every  man  in  the 
hands  of  every  petty  officer.  I  say  I  admit  that  special 
writs  of  assistance,  to  search  special  places,  may  be  granted 
to  certain  persons  on  oath;  but  I  deny  that  the  writ  now 
prayed  for  can  be  granted,  for  I  beg  leave  to  make  some 
observations  on  the  writ  itself,  before  I  proceed  to  other 
Acts  of  Parliament. 


The  Revolutionary  Era  2S 

In  the  first  place,  the  writ  is  universal,  being  directed 
*'to  all  and  singular  justices,  sheriffs,  constables,  and  all 
other  officers  and  subjects";  so  that,  in  short,  it  is  directed 
to  every  subject  in  the  king's  dominions.  Every  one  with 
this  writ  may  be  a  tyrant;  if  this  commission  be  legal,  a 
tyrant  in  a  legal  manner,  also,  may  control,  imprison,  or 
murder  any  one  within  the  realm. 

In  the  next  place,  it  is  perpetual;  there  is  no  return.  A 
man  is  accountable  to  no  person  for  his  doings.  Every 
man  may  reign  secure  in  his  petty  tyranny,  and  spread 
terror  and  desolation  around  him,  until  the  trump  of  the 
arch-angel  shall  excite  different  emotions  in  his  soul. 

In  the  third  place,  a  person  with  this  writ,  in  the  daytime, 
may  enter  all  houses,  shops,  etc.,  at  will,  and  command  all 
to  assist  him. 

Fourthly,  by  this  writ,  not  only  deputies,  etc.,  but  even 
their  menial  servants,  are  allowed  to  lord  it  over  us.  What 
is  this  but  to  have  the  curse  of  Canaan  with  a  witness  on 
us;  to  be  the  servant  of  servants,  the  most  despicable  of 
God's  creation  ? 

Now  one  of  the  most  essential  branches  of  English  liberty 
is  the  freedom  of  one's  house.  A  man's  house  is  his  castle; 
and  while  he  is  quiet,  he  is  as  well  guarded  as  a  prince  in 
his  castle.  This  writ,  if  it  should  be  declared  legal,  would 
totally  annihilate  this  privilege.  Custom-house  officers 
may  enter  our  houses  when  they  please;  we  are  commanded 
to  permit  their  entry.  Their  menial  servants  may  enter, 
may  break  locks,  bars,  and  everything  in  their  way;  and 
whether  they  break  through  malice  or  revenge,  no  man,  no 
court  can  inquire.  Bare  suspicion  without  oath  is  suffi- 
cient. This  wanton  exercise  of  this  power  is  not  a  chi- 
merical suggestion  of  a  heated  brain. 

I  will  mention  some  facts.  Mr.  Pew  had  one  of  these 
writs,  and  when  Mr.  Ware  succeeded  him,  he  indorsed 
this  writ  over  to  Mr.  Ware;  so  that  these  writs  are  nego- 
tiable from  one  officer  to  another,  and  so  your  honors  have 
no  opportunity  of  judging  the  persons  to  whom  this  vast 
power  is  delegated.  Another  instance  is  this:  Mr.  Jus- 
tice Walley  had  called  this  same  Mr.  Ware  before  him, 


24  American  Literature 

by  a  constable,  to  answer  for  a  breach  of  the  Sabbath  Day- 
Acts,  or  that  of  profane  swearing.  As  soon  as  he  had 
finished,  Mr.  Ware  asked  him  if  he  had  done.  He  replied: 
"Yes.''  "Well,  then,"  said  Mr.  Ware,  "I  will  show  you 
a  little  of  my  power.  I  command  you  to  permit  me  to 
search  your  house  for  uncustomed  goods";  and  went  on 
to  search  the  house  from  the  garret  to  the  cellar,  and  then 
served  the  constable  in  the  same  manner !  But  to  show 
another  absurdity  in  this  writ,  if  it  should  be  established, 
I  insist  upon  it  that  every  person,  by  the  14th  of  Charles 
II.,  has  this  power  as  well  as  the  custom-house  oflBcers. 
The  words  are:  "It  shall  be  lawful  for  any  person  or  persons 
authorized,"  etc.  What  a  scene  does  this  open !  Every 
man  prompted  by  revenge,  ill  humor,  or  wantonness,  to 
inspect  the  inside  of  his  neighbor's  house,  may  get  a  writ 
of  assistance.  Others  will  ask  it  from  self-defense;  one 
arbitrary  exertion  will  provoke  another,  until  society  be 
involved  in  tumult  and  in  blood. 


(Here  the  report  of  the  speech  ends.  The  rest  was 
afterward  written  up  by  John  Adams.) 

2.  Benjamin  Franklin  (i  706-1 790),  "  the  sage,  statesman, 
and  scientist,"  next  to  Washington,  was  the  greatest  American 
of  the  eighteenth  century.  His  signature  is  found  on  four 
celebrated  American  documents,  the  Declaration  of  Indepen- 
dence, the  Treaty  of  Alliance  with  France,  the  Treaty  of  Peace 
with  England,  and  the  Constitution.  His  best  literary  product, 
however,  was  not  of  a  political  nature.  He  first  became  widely 
known  through  his  wise  saws  which  appeared  in  Poor  Richard^ s 
Almanac  J  published  annually  for  a  quarter  of  a  century,  from 
1733  on.  Franklin  spent  his  nights  and  days  studying  Addi- 
son in  order  to  improve  his  literary  style  and  the  effect  of  this 
study  is  much  in  evidence  in  his  Autobiography ,  which  is  the 
most  readable  book  published  in  America  during  the  eighteenth 
century. 

(Since  Franklin's  best  literary  product  was  not  of  a  political 
nature,  a  passage  from  his  Autobiography  is  added  to  the  ex- 
tract which  places  him  here.) 


The  Revolutionary  Era  25 


On  the  Federal  Constitution 

(From   a   speech   delivered  in  Philadelphia  before  the  Constitu- 
tional Convention  of  1787) 

I  confess  that  I  do  not  entirely  approve  of  this  Constitu- 
tion at  present;  but,  sir,  I  am  not  sure  I  shall  never  ap- 
prove of  it,  for,  having  lived  long,  I  have  experienced 
many  instances  of  being  obliged,  by  better  information 
or  fuller  consideration,  to  change  opinions,  even  on  impor- 
tant subjects,  which  I  once  thought  right,  but  found  to  be 
otherwise.  It  is  therefore  that,  the  older  I  grow,  the 
more  apt  I  am  to  doubt  my  own  judgment  of  others. 
Most  men,  indeed,  as  well  as  most  sects  in  religion,  think 
themselves  in  possession  of  all  truth,  and  that  wherever 
others  differ  from  them,  it  is  so  far  error.  Steele,  a  Protes- 
tant, in  a  dedication,  tells  the  pope  that  the  only  difference 
between  our  two  churches  in  their  opinions  of  the  certaint}^ 
of  their  doctrines  is,  the  Romish  Church  is  infallible,  and 
the  Church  of  England  is  never  in  the  wrong.  But,  tho 
many  private  persons  think  almost  as  highly  of  their  own 
infalHbility  as  of  that  of  their  sect,  few  express  it  so  nat- 
urally as  a  certain  French  lady,  who,  in  a  little  dispute 
with  her  sister,  said:  "But  I  meet  with  nobody  but  myself 
that  is  always  in  the  right." 


It  .  .  1  astonishes  me,  sir,  to  find  this  system  approach- 
ing so  near  to  perfection  as  it  does;  and  I  think  it  will 
astonish  our  enemies,  who  are  waiting  with  confidence  to 
hear  that  our  counsels  are  confounded  like  those  of  the 
builders  of  Babel,  and  that  our  States  are  on  the  point  of 
separation,  only  to  meet  hereafter  for  the  purpose  of  cut- 
ting one  another's  throats.  Thus  I  consent,  sir,  to  this 
Constitution,  because  I  expect  no  better,  and  because  I 
am  not  sure  that  it  is  not  the  best.  The  opinions  I  have 
had  of  its  errors  I  sacrifice  to  the  public  good.  I  have 
never  whispered  a  syllable  of  them  abroad.  Within  these 
walls  they  were  born,  and  here  they  shall  die.     If  every 


26  American  Literature 

one  of  us,  in  returning  to  our  constituents,  were  to  report 
the  objections  he  has  had  to  it,  and  endeavor  to  gain  par- 
tizans  in  support  of  them,  we  might  prevent  its  being  gen- 
erally received  and  thereby  lose  all  the  salutary  effects 
and  great  advantages  resulting  naturally  in  our  favor 
among  foreign  nations,  as  well  as  among  ourselves,  from 
our  real  or  apparent  unanimity.  Much  of  the  strength 
and  efficiency  of  any  government,  in  procuring  and  se- 
curing happiness  to  the  people,  depends  on  opinion,  on  the 
general  opinion  of  the  goodness  of  that  government,  as 
well  as  of  the  wisdom  and  integrity  of  its  governors.  I 
hope,  therefore,  for  our  own  sakes,  as  a  part  of  the  people, 
and  for  the  sake  of  our  posterity,  that  we  shall  act  heartily 
and  unanimously  in  recommending  this  Constitution 
wherever  our  influence  may  extend,  and  turn  our  future 
thoughts  and  endeavors  to  the  means  of  having  it  well 
administered. 

On  the  whole,  sir,  I  can  not  help  expressing  a  wish  that 
every  member  of  the  convention  who  may  still  have  ob- 
jections to  it,  would,  with  me,  on  this  occasion,  doubt  a 
little  of  his  own  infallibility,  and,  to  make  manifest  our 
xmanimity,  put  his  name  to  this  instrument. 


Learning  to  Write 

(From  Franklin's  Autobiography) 

There  was  another  bookish  lad  in  town,  John  Collins  by 
name,  with  whom  I  was  intimately  acquainted.  We 
sometimes  disputed,  and  very  fond  we  were  of  argument, 
and  very  desirous  of  confuting  one  another,  which  dispu- 
tatious turn,  by  the  way,  is  apt  to  become  a  very  bad 
habit,  making  people  often  extremely  disagreeable  in  com- 
pany by  the  contradiction  that  is  necessary  to  bring  it 
into  practice;  and  thence,  besides  souring  and  spoiling 
the  conversation,  is  productive  of  disgusts,  and  perhaps 
enmities  where  you  may  have  occasion  for  friendship.  I 
had  caught  it  by  reading  my  father's  books  of  dispute 
about  reHgion.     Persons  of  good  sense,  I  have  since  ob- 


The  Revolutionary  Era  27 

served,  seldom  fall  into  it,  except  lawyers,  university 
men,  and  men  of  all  sorts  that  have  been  bred  at  Edin- 
borough. 


About  this  time  I  met  with  an  odd  volume  of  the  Spec- 
tator. It  was  the  third.  I  had  never  before  seen  any  of 
them.  I  bought  it,  read  it  over  and  over,  and  was  much 
delighted  with  it.  I  thought  the  writing  excellent,  and 
wished  if  possible,  to  imitate  it.  With  this  view  I  took 
some  of  the  papers,  and,  making  short  hints  of  the  senti- 
ment in  each  sentence,  laid  them  by  a  few  days,  and  then, 
without  looking  at  the  book,  try'd  to  compleat  the  papers 
again,  by  expressing  each  hinted  sentiment  at  length,  and 
as  fully  as  it  had  been  expressed  before,  in  any  suitable 
words  that  should  come  to  hand.  Then  I  compared  my 
Spectator  with  the  original,  discovered  some  of  my  faults, 
and  corrected  them.  But  I  found  I  wanted  a  stock  of 
words,  or  a  readiness  in  recollecting  and  using  them,  which 
I  thought  I  should  have  acquired  before  that  time  if  I  had 
gone  on  making  verses;  since  the  continual  occasion  for 
words  of  the  same  import,  but  of  different  length,  to  suit 
the  measure,  or  of  different  sound  for  the  rhyme,  would 
have  laid  me  under  a  constant  necessity  of  searching  for 
variety,  and  also  have  tended  to  fix  that  variety  in  my  mind, 
and  make  me  master  of  it.  Therefore  I  took  some  of  the 
tales  and  turned  them  into  verse;  and,  after  a  time,  when  I 
had  pretty  well  forgotten  the  prose,  turned  them  back 
again.  I  also  sometimes  jumbled  my  collections  of  hints 
into  confusion,  and  after  some  weeks  endeavored  to  reduce 
them  into  the  best  order,  before  I  began  to  form  the  full 
sentences  and  compleat  the  paper.  This  was  to  teach  me 
method  in  the  arrangement  of  thoughts.  By  comparing 
my  work  afterwards  with  the  original,  I  discovered  many 
faults  and  amended  them;  but  I  sometimes  had  the  plea- 
sure of  fancying  that,  in  certain  particulars  of  small  import, 
I  had  been  lucky  enough  to  improve  the  method  or  the 
language,  and  this  encouraged  me  to  think  I  might  possibly 
in  time  come  to  be  a  tolerable  English  writer,  of  which  I 


28  American  Literature 

was  extreamly  ambitious.  My  time  for  these  exercises  and 
for  reading  was  at  night,  after  work  or  before  it  began  in 
the  morning,  or  on  Sunday's,  when  I  contrived  to  be  in 
the  printing-house  alone,  evading  as  much  as  I  could  the 
common  attendance  on  public  worship  which  my  father 
used  to  exact  of  me  when  I  was  under  his  care,  and  which 
indeed  I  still  thought  a  duty,  though  I  could  not,  as  it 
seemed  to  me,  afford  time  to  practise  it. 

3.  George  Washington  (173  2-1 799),  Commander-in-Chief 
of  the  American  Revolutionary  forces  and  first  President  of 
the  United  States,  wrote  some  remarkable  state  papers.  No 
narrative  of  the  history  of  American  literature  is  complete 
without  recognition  of  the  lofty  tone  and  noble  eloquence  of  his 
Farewell  Address ,  an  extract  of  which  follows. 

(From  Washington's  Farewell  Address) 

The  great  rule  of  conduct  for  us,  in  regard  to  foreign 
Nations,  is,  in  extending  our  commercial  relations,  to  have 
with  them  as  little  Political  connection  as  possible.  So 
far  as  we  have  already  formed  engagements,  let  them  be 
fulfilled  with  perfect  good  faith.     Here  let  us  stop. 

Europe  has  a  set  of  primary  interests,  which  to  us  have 
none,  or  a  very  remote  relation.  Hence  she  must  be  en- 
gaged in  frequent  controversies,  the  causes  of  which  are 
essentially  foreign  to  our  concerns.  Hence,  therefore,  it 
must  be  unwise  in  us  to  implicate  ourselves,  by  artificial 
ties,  in  the  ordinary  vicissitudes  of  her  politics,  or  the 
ordinary  combinations  and  collisions  of  her  friendships 
or  enmities. 

Our  detached  and  distant  situation  invites  and  enables 
us  to  pursue  a  different  course.  If  we  remain  one  People, 
under  an  efficient  government,  the  period  is  not  far  off, 
when  we  may  defy  material  injury  from  external  annoy- 
ance; when  we  may  take  such  an  attitude  as  will  cause 
the  neutrality,  we  may  at  any  time  resolve  upon,  to  be 
scrupulously  respected;  when  belligerent  nations,  under 
the  impossibility  of  making  acquisitions  upon  us,  will  not 
lightly  hazard  the  giving  us  provocation;    when  we  may 


The  Revolutionary  Era  29 

choose  peace  or  war,  as  our  interest,  guided  by  justice, 
shall  counsel. 

Why  forego  the  advantages  of  so  peculiar  a  situation? 
Why  quit  our  own  to  stand  upon  foreign  ground?  Why, 
by  interweaving  our  destiny  with  that  of  any  part  of 
Europe,  entangle  our  peace  and  prosperity  in  the  toils  of 
European  ambition,  rivalship,  interest,  humor,  or  caprice  ? 

'Tis  our  true  policy  to  steer  clear  of  permanent  alliances 
with  any  portion  of  the  foreign  world;  so  far,  I  mean,  as 
we  are  now  at  liberty  to  do  it;  for  let  me  not  be  under- 
stood as  capable  of  patronizing  infidelity  to  existing  en- 
gagements. I  hold  the  maxim  no  less  applicable  to  pub- 
lic than  to  private  affairs,  that  honesty  is  always  the  best 
poHcy.  I  repeat  it,  therefore,  let  those  engagements  be 
observed  in  their  genuine  sense.  But,  in  my  opinion,  it 
is  unnecessary  and  would  be  unwise  to  extend  them. 

Taking  care  always  to  keep  ourselves,  by  suitable  es- 
tabhshments,  on  a  respectably  defensive  posture,  we  may 
safely  trust  to  temporary  alliances  for  extraordinary  emer- 
gencies. 


In  offering  to  you,  my  Countrymen,  these  counsels  of 
an  old  and  affectionate  friend,  I  dare  not  hope  they  will 
make  the  strong  and  lasting  impression  I  could  wish; 
that  they  will  control  the  usual  current  of  the  passions,  or 
prevent  our  Nation  from  running  the  course,  which  has 
hitherto  rnarked  the  destiny  of  Nations.  But,  if  I  may 
even  flatter  myself,  that  they  may  be  productive  of  some 
partial  benefit,  some  occasional  good;  that  they  may  now 
and  then  recur  to  moderate  the  fury  of  party  spirit,  to 
warn  against  the  mischiefs  of  foreign  intrigue,  to  guard 
against  the  impostures  of  pretended  patriotism;  this  hope 
will  be  a  full  recompense  for  the  solicitude  for  your  welfare, 
by  which  they  have  been  dictated. 

How  far  in  the  discharge  of  my  official  duties,  I  have 
been  guided  by  the  principles  which  have  been  delineated, 
the  public  Records  and  other  evidences  of  my  conduct 
must  witness  to  You  and  to  the  World.     To  myself,  the 


30  American  Literature 

assurance  of  my  own  conscience  is,  that  I  have  at  least 
believed  myself  to  be  guided  by  them. 

Though,  in  reviewing  the  incidents  of  my  Administra- 
tion, I  am  unconscious  of  intentional  error,  I  am  never- 
theless too  sensible  of  my  defects  not  to  think  it  proba- 
ble that  I  may  have  committed  many  errors.  Whatever 
they  may  be  I  fervently  beseech  the  Almighty  to  avert  or 
mitigate  the  evils  to  which  they  may  tend.  I  shall  also 
carry  with  me  the  hope,  that  my  country  will  never  cease 
to  view  them  with  indulgence;  and  that,  after  forty-five 
years  of  my  life  dedicated  to  its  service  with  an  upright 
zeal,  the  faults  of  incompetent  abilities  will  be  consigned 
to  oblivion,  as  myself  must  soon  be  to  the  mansions  of  rest. 

Relying  on  its  kindness  in  this  as  in  other  things,  and 
actuated  by  that  fervent  love  towards  it,  which  is  so  nat- 
ural to  a  man,  who  views  in  it  the  native  soil  of  himself 
and  his  progenitors  for  several  generations;  I  anticipate 
with  pleasing  expectation  that  retreat,  in  which  I  promise 
myself  to  realize,  without  alloy,  the  sweet  enjoyment  of 
partaking,  in  the  midst  of  my  fellow-citizens,  the  benign 
influence  of  good  Laws  under  a  free  Government,  the  ever 
favorite  object  of  my  heart,  and  the  happy  reward,  as  I 
trust,  of  our  mutual  cares,  labors,  and  dangers. 

G°.  Washington. 

United  States,  19  September,  1796. 

4.  Patrick  Henry  (i 736-1 799),  member  of  the  First  Con- 
tinental Congress  in  1774,  twice  Governor  of  Virginia,  and 
member  of  the  convention  which  ratified  the  Constitution  in 
1788,  was  America's  most  eloquent  orator.  Jefferson  said: 
"  He  appeared  to  me  to  speak  as  Homer  wrote."  His  speech 
before  the  Virginia  Assembly  March  23,  1775,  ranks  as  one  of 
the  greatest  American  orations. 

(From  the  speech  delivered  before  the  Virginia  Assembly,  March 
23,  1775,  often  called  the  "Gm  Me  Liberty  or  Give  Me  Death'^ 
speech) 

The  question  before  the  House  is  one  of  awful  moment 
to  this  country.     For  my  own  part,  I  consider  it  as  nothing 


The  Revolutionary  Era  31 

less  than  a  question  of  freedom  or  slavery;  and  in  propor- 
tion to  the  magnitude  of  the  subject  ought  to  be  the  free- 
dom of  the  debate.  It  is  only  in  this  way  that  we  can 
hope  to  arrive  at  truth,  and  fulfil  the  great  responsibiUty 
which  we  hold  to  God  and  our  country.  Should  I  keep 
back  my  opinions  at  such  a  time,  through  fear  of  giving 
offense,  I  should  consider  myself  as  guilty  of  treason 
toward  my  country,  and  of  an  act  of  disloyalty  toward  the 
Majesty  of  Heaven,  which  I  revere  above  all  earthly  kings. 

Mr.  President,  it  is  natural  to  man  to  indulge  in  the 
illusions  of  hope.  We  are  apt  to  shut  our  eyes  against  a 
painful  truth,  and  Usten  to  the  song  of  that  siren,  till  she 
transforms  us  into  beasts.  Is  this  the  part  of  wise  men, 
engaged  in  a  great  and  arduous  struggle  for  liberty  ?  Are 
we  disposed  to  be  of  the  number  of  those,  who,  having 
eyes,  see  not,  and  having  ears,  hear  not,  the  things  which 
so  nearly  concern  their  temporal  salvation  ?  For  my  part, 
whatever  anguish  of  spirit  it  may  cost,  I  am  willing  to 
know  the  whole  truth;  to  know  the  worst,  and  to  provide 
for  it. 

I  have  but  one  lamp  by  which  my  feet  are  guided,  and 
that  is  the  lamp  of  experience.  I  know  of  no  way  of 
judging  of  the  future  but  by  the  past.  And  judging  by 
the  past,  I  wish  to  know  what  there  has  been  in  the  conduct 
of  the  British  ministry  for  the  last  ten  years  to  justify 
those  hopes  with  which  gentlemen  have  been  pleased  to 
solace  themselves  and  the  House.  Is  it  that  insidious 
smile  with  which  our  petition  has  been  lately  received? 
Trust  it  not,  sir;  it  will  prove  a  snare  to  your  feet.  Suffer 
not  yourselves  to  be  betrayed  with  a  kiss.  Ask  yourselves 
how  this  gracious  reception  of  our  petition  comports  with 
those  warlike  preparations  which  cover  our  waters  and 
darken  our  land.  Are  fleets  and  armies  necessary  to  a 
work  of  love  and  reconciliation?  Have  we  shown  our- 
selves so  unwilling  to  be  reconciled  that  force  must  be 
called  in  to  win  back  our  love?  Let  us  not  deceive  our- 
selves, sir.  These  are  the  implements  of  war  and  subjuga- 
tion; the  last  arguments  to  which  kings  resort. 

I  ask  gentlemen,  sir,  what  means  this  martial  array,  if 


32  American  Literature 

its  purpose  be  not  to  force  us  to  submission?  Can  gen- 
tlemen assign  any  other  possible  motive  for  it?  Has 
Great  Britain  any  enemy  in  this  quarter  of  the  world  to 
call  for  all  this  accumulation  of  navies  and  armies  ?  No,  sir, 
she  has  none.  They  are  meant  for  us:  they  can  be  meant 
for  no  other.  They  are  sent  over  to  bind  and  rivet  upon 
us  those  chains  which  the  British  ministry  have  been  so 
long  forging.  And  what  have  we  to  oppose  to  them? 
Shall  we  try  argument?  Sir,  we  have  been  trying  that 
for  the  last  ten  years.  Have  we  anything  new  to  offer 
upon  the  subject?  Nothing.  We  have  held  the  subject 
up  in  every  light  of  which  it  is  capable;  but  it  has  been  all 
in  vain. 


In  vain,  after  these  things,  may  we  indulge  the  fond  hope 
of  peace  and  reconciliation.  There  is  no  longer  any  room 
for  hope.  If  we  wish  to  be  free — if  we  mean  to  preserve 
inviolate  those  inestimable  privileges  for  which  we  have 
been  so  long  contending — ^if  we  mean  not  basely  to  abandon 
the  noble  struggle  in  which  we  have  been  so  long  engaged, 
and  which  we  have  pledged  ourselves  never  to  abandon, 
until  the  glorious  object  of  our  contest  shall  be  obtained — ■ 
we  must  fight !  I  repeat  it,  sir,  we  must  fight !  An  appeal 
to  arms  and  to  the  God  of  Hosts  is  all  that  is  left  us ! 


Three  millions  of  people  armed  in  the  holy  cause  of 
liberty,  and  in  such  a  country  as  that  which  we  possess, 
are  invincible  by  any  force  which  our  enemy  can  send 
against  us.  Besides,  sir,  we  shall  not  fight  our  battles 
alone.  There  is  a  just  God  who  presides  over  the  destinies 
of  nations,  and  who  will  raise  up  friends  to  fight  our  bat- 
tles for  us.  The  battle,  sir,  is  not  to  the  strong  alone; 
it  is  to  the  vigilant,  the  active,  the  brave.  Besides,  sir, 
we  have  no  election.  If  we  were  base  enough  to  desire 
it,  it  is  now  too  late  to  retire  from  the  contest.  There  is 
no  retreat  but  in  submission  and  slavery!  Our  chains 
are  forged!    Their  clanking  may  be  heard  on  the  plains 


The  Revolutionary  Era  33 

of  Boston!    The  war  is  inevitable — and  let  it  cornel    I 
repeat  it,  sir,  let  it  come ! 

It  is  in  vain,  sir,  to  extenuate  the  matter.  Gentlemen 
may  cry.  Peace,  Peace — but  there  is  no  peace.  The  war 
is  actually  begun!  The  next  gale  that  sweeps  from  the 
north  will  bring  to  our  ears  the  clash  of  resounding  arms ! 
Our  brethren  are  already  in  the  field !  Why  stand  we  here 
idle?  What  is  it  that  gentlemen  wish?  What  would 
they  have?  Is  life  so  dear,  or  peace  so  sweet,  as  to  be 
purchased  at  the  price  of  chains  and  slavery?  Forbid  it. 
Almighty  God !  I  know  not  what  course  others  may  take; 
but  as  for  me,  give  me  Hberty  or  give  me  death ! 

5.  Thomas  Paine  (i 737-1809)  was  an  Englishman  who  came 
to  America  in  1774  and  espoused  the  cause  of  liberty.  It  has 
been  said  that  his  pamphlet  Common  Sense  was  worth  an  army 
of  20,000  men  to  the  Americans.  In  the  first  number  of  The 
Crisis,  a  series  of  tracts  published  in  defence  of  independence, 
he  wrote  the  famous  sentence  that  has  since  become  a  proverb: 
* 'These  are  the  times  that  try  men's  souls." 

The  Day  of  Freedom 

(From  The  Crisis,  No.  i,  1776) 

These  are  the  times  that  try  men's  souls.  The  summer 
soldier  and  the  sunshine  patriot  will,  in  this  crisis,  shrink 
from  the  service  of  their  country;  but  he  that  stands  it  now, 
deserves  the  love  and  thanks  of  man  and  woman.  Tyr- 
anny, like  hell,  is  not  easily  conquered;  yet  we  have  this 
consolation  with  us,  that  the  harder  the  conflict,  the  more 
glorious  the  triumph.  What  we  obtain  too  cheap,  we 
esteem  too  lightly;  'tis  dearness  only  that  gives  every- 
thing its  value.  Heaven  knows  how  to  put  a  proper  price 
upon  its  goods;  and  it  would  be  strange  indeed,  if  so 
celestial  an  article  as  freedom  should  not  be  highly  rated. 
Britain,  with  an  army  to  enforce  her  tyranny,  has  declared 
that  she  has  a  right  (not  only  to  tax)  but  "to  bind  us  in 
all  cases  whatsoever,"  and  if  being  bound  in  that  manner 
is  not  slavery,  then  is  there  not  such  a  thing  as  slavery 


34  American  Literature 

upon  earth.  Even  the  expression  is  impious,  for  so  un- 
limited a  power  can  belong  only  to  God.  .  .  . 

I  have  as  little  superstition  in  me  as  any  man  living, 
but  my  secret  opinion  has  ever  been,  and  still  is,  that  God 
Almighty  will  not  give  up  a  people  to  mihtary  destruction, 
or  leave  them,  unsupportedly  to  perish,  who  have  so  ear- 
nestly and  so  repeatedly  sought  to  avoid  the  calamities 
of  war,  by  every  decent  method  which  wisdom  could 
invent.  Neither  have  I  so  much  of  the  infidel  in  me,  as 
to  suppose  that  He  has  relinquished  the  government  of 
the  world,  and  given  us  up  to  the  care  of  devils;  and  as  I 
do  not,  I  cannot  see  on  what  grounds  the  king  of  Britain 
can  look  up  to  heaven  for  help  against  us:  a  common  mur- 
derer, a  highwayman,  or  a  house-breaker  has  as  good  a 
pretence  as  he.  .  .  . 

The  heart  that  feels  not  now,  is  dead:  the  blood  of  his 
children  will  curse  his  cowardice,  who  shrinks  back  at  a 
time  when  a  little  might  have  saved  the  whole,  and  made 
them  happy.  I  love  the  man  that  can  smile  in  trouble, 
that  can  gather  strength  from  distress,  and  grow  brave  by 
reflection.  'Tis  the  business  of  Httle  minds  to  shrink;  but 
he  whose  heart  is  firm,  and  whose  conscience  approves  his 
conduct,  will  pursue  his  principles  unto  death.  My  own 
line  of  reasoning  is  to  myself  as  straight  and  clear  as  a  ray 
of  Hght.  Not  all  the  treasures  of  the  world,  so  far  as  I 
beHeve,  could  have  induced  me  to  support  an  offensive 
war,  for  I  think  it  murder;  but  if  a  thief  breaks  into  my 
house,  burns  and  destroys  my  property,  and  kills  or  threat- 
ens to  kill  me,  or  those  that  are  in  it,  and  to  "bind  me  in 
all  cases  whatsoever"  to  his  absolute  will,  am  I  to  suffer  it? 
What  signifies  it  to  me,  whether  he  who  does  it  is  a  king 
or  a  common  man :  my  countryman  or  not  my  countryman ; 
whether  it  be  done  by  an  individual  villain,  or  an  army 
of  them  ?  If  we  reason  to  the  root  of  things  we  shall  find 
no  difference;  neither  can  any  just  cause  be  assigned  why 
we  should  punish  in  the  one  case  and  pardon  in  the  other. 

6.  Alexander  Hamilton  (17 57-1 804)  was  instrumental  in 
shaping  the  Constitution  of  the  United  States,  which  is  described 


The  Revolutionary  Era  35 

by  Gladstone  as  "  the  most  wonderful  work  ever  struck  off  at  a 
given  time  by  the  brain  and  purpose  of  man."  While  Secre- 
tary of  Treasury  under  Washington,  he  established  the  financial 
system  of  the  United  States.  He  was  chief  author  (the  others 
were  John  Jay  and  James  Madison)  of  The  Federalist,  a  series  of 
poHtical  essays  expounding  the  principles  of  government.  This 
collection  ranks  high  among  our  state  papers. 

(From  the  speech  delivered  June  24, 1788,  in  the  New  York  Conven- 
tion, called  to  ratify  the  Constitution  of  the  United  States) 

Gentlemen  in  their  reasoning  have  placed  the  interests 
of  the  several  States  and  those  of  the  United  States  in 
contrast;  this  is  not  a  fair  view  of  the  subject:  they  must 
necessarily  be  involved  in  each  other.  What  we  appre- 
hend is  that  some  sinister  prejudice  or  some  prevailing 
passion  may  assume  the  form  of  a  genuine  interest.  The 
influence  of  these  is  as  powerful  as  the  most  permanent 
conviction  of  the  public  good,  and  against  this  influence 
we  ought  to  provide.  The  local  interests  of  a  State  ought 
in  every  case  to  give  way  to  the  interests  of  the  Union; 
for  when  a  sacrifice  of  one  or  the  other  is  necessary,  the 
former  becomes  only  an  apparent,  partial  interest,  and 
should  yield  on  the  principle  that  the  small  good  ought 
never  to  oppose  the  great  one.  When  you  assemble  from 
your  several  counties  in  the  Legislature,  were  every  mem- 
ber to  be  guided  only  by  the  apparent  interests  of  his 
county,  government  would  be  impracticable.  There  must 
be  a  perpetual  accommodation  and  sacrifice  of  local  ad- 
vantages to  general  expediency;  but  the  spirit  of  a  mere 
popular  assembly  would  rarely  be  actuated  by  this  impor- 
tant principle.  It  is  therefore  absolutely  necessary  that 
the  Senate  should  be  so  formed  as  to  be  unbiased  by  false 
conceptions  of  the  real  interests  or  undue  attachment  to 
the  apparent  good  of  their  several  States. 

Every  member  must  have  been  struck  with  an  observa- 
tion of  a  gentleman  from  Albany.  Do  what  you  will,  says 
he,  local  prejudices  and  opinions  will  go  into  the  govern- 
ment.   What !  shall  we  then  form  a  Constitution  to  cherish 


36  American  Literature 

and  strengthen  these  prejudices?  Shall  we  confirm  the 
distemper  instead  of  remedying  it?  It  is  undeniable  that 
there  must  be  a  control  somewhere.  Either  the  general 
interest  is  to  control  the  particular  interests,  or  the  con- 
trary. If  the  former,  then  certainly  the  government  ought 
to  be  so  framed  as  to  render  the  power  of  control  efficient 
to  all  intents  and  purposes;  if  the  latter,  a  striking  ab- 
surdity follows;  the  controlling  powers  must  be  as  numer- 
ous as  the  varying  interests,  and  the  operations  of  the 
government  must  therefore  cease;  for  the  moment  you 
accommodate  these  different  interests,  which  is  the  only 
way  to  set  the  government  in  motion,  you  estabhsh  a  con- 
trolling power.  Thus,  whatever  constitutional  provisions 
are  made  to  the  contrary,  every  government  will  be  at 
last  driven  to  the  necessity  of  subjecting  the  partial  to  the 
universal  interest.  The  gentlemen  ought  always  in  their 
reasoning  to  distinguish  between  the  real,  genuine  good  of 
a  State  and  the  opinions  and  prejudices  which  may  prevail 
respecting  it;  the  latter  may  be  opposed  to  the  general 
good,  and  consequently  ought  to  be  sacrificed;  the  former 
is  so  involved  in  it  that  it  never  can  be  sacrificed. 


With  regard  to  the  jurisdiction  of  the  two  governments 
I  shall  certainly  admit  that  the  Constitution  ought  to  be 
so  formed  as  not  to  prevent  the  States  from  providing  for 
their  own  existence;  and  I  maintain  that  it  is  so  formed, 
and  that  their  power  of  providing  for  themselves  is  suf- 
ficiently estabhshed.  This  is  conceded  by  one  gentleman, 
and  in  the  next  breath  the  concession  is  retracted.  He 
says  Congress  has  but  one  exclusive  right  in  taxation — 
that  of  duties  on  imports;  certainly,  then,  their  other 
powers  are  only  concurrent.  But  to  take  off  the  force  of 
this  obvious  conclusion,  he  immediately  says  that  the  laws 
of  the  United  States  are  supreme  and  that  where  there  is 
one  supreme  there  can  not  be  a  concurrent  authority;  and 
further,  that  where  the  laws  of  the  Union  are  supreme  those 
of  the  States  must  be  subordinate,  because  there  can  not 
be  two  supremes.     This  is  curious  sophistry.     That  two 


The  Revolutionary  Era  37 

supreme  powers  can  not  act  together  is  false.  They  are 
inconsistent  only  when  they  are  aimed  at  each  other  or  at 
one  indivisible  object.  The  laws  of  the  United  States  are 
supreme  as  to  all  their  proper  constitutional  objects;  the 
laws  of  the  States  are  supreme  in  the  same  way.  These 
supreme  laws  may  act  on  different  objects  without  clash- 
ing, or  they  may  operate  on  different  parts  of  the  same 
common  object  with  perfect  harmony.  Suppose  both 
governments  should  lay  a  tax  of  a  penny  on  a  certain  ar- 
ticle; has  not  each  an  independent  and  uncontrollable 
power  to  collect  its  own  tax  ?  The  meaning  of  the  maxim, 
there  can  not  be  two  supremes,  is  simply  this — two  powers 
can  not  be  supreme  over  each  other.  This  meaning  is 
entirely  perverted  by  the  gentlemen.  But,  it  is  said,  dis- 
putes between  collectors  are  to  be  referred  to  the  Federal 
courts.  This  is  again  wandering  in  the  field  of  conjecture. 
But  suppose  the  fact  is  certain,  is  it  not  to  be  presumed 
that  they  will  express  the  true  meaning  of  the  Constitu- 
tion and  the  laws?  Will  they  not  be  bound  to  consider 
the  concurrent  jurisdiction;  to  declare  that  both  the  taxes 
shall  have  equal  operation;  that  both  the  powers,  in  that 
respect,  are  sovereign  and  coextensive?  If  they  transgress 
their  duty  we  are  to  hope  that  they  will  be  punished.  Sir, 
we  can  reason  from  probabilities  alone.  When  we  leave 
common  sense  and  give  ourselves  up  to  conjecture,  there 
can  be  no  certainty,  no  security  in  our  reasonings. 


7.  Thomas  Jefferson  (i 743-1826)  was  successively  Gover- 
nor of  Virginia,  Minister  to  France,  Secretary  of  State,  Vice- 
President,  and  President  of  the  United  States.  He  was  the 
chief  author  of  the  Declaration  of  Independence,  which  Pro- 
fessor Tyler  calls  "  a  kind  of  war-song." 


(From  Jefferson's  First  Inaugural  Address) 

(It  is  said  that  this  was  delivered  without  pomp  or  cere- 
mony, March  4,  1801.  Jefferson  went  to  the  Capitol  on 
horseback,  tied  his  horse  to  a  fence,  walked  into  the  Senate 
Chamber,  and  made  his  speech.) 


38  American  Literature 

About  to  enter,  fellow  citizens,  on  the  exercise  of  duties 
which  comprehend  everything  dear  and  valuable  to  you, 
it  is  proper  you  should  understand  what  I  deem  the  essen- 
tial principles  of  our  government,  and  consequently  those 
which  ought  to  shape  its  administration.  I  will  compress 
them  within  the  narrowest  compass  they  will  bear,  stat- 
ing the  general  principle,  but  not  all  its  limitations.  Equal 
and  exact  justice  to  all  men,  of  whatever  state  or  per- 
suasion, religious  or  political;  peace,  commerce,  and 
honest  friendship  with  all  nations,  entangling  alliances 
with  none;  the  support  of  the  State  governments  in  all 
their  rights,  as  the  most  competent  administrations  for 
our  domestic  concerns,  and  the  surest  bulwarks  against 
anti-repubHcan  tendencies;  the  preservation  of  the  general 
government  in  its  whole  constitutional  vigor,  as  the  sheet- 
anchor  of  our  peace  at  home  and  safety  abroad;  a  jealous 
care  of  the  right  of  election  by  the  people;  a  mild  and  safe 
corrective  of  abuses  which  are  lopped  by  the  sword  of 
revolution,  where  peaceable  remedies  are  unprovided;  ab- 
solute acquiescence  in  the  decisions  of  the  majority,  the 
vital  principle  of  republics,  from  which  is  no  appeal  but  to 
force,  the  vital  principle  and  immediate  parent  of  despot- 
ism; a  well-disciplined  militia,  our  best  reliance  in  peace 
and  for  the  first  moments  of  war,  till  regulars  may  relieve 
them;  the  supremacy  of  the  civil  over  the  military  au- 
thority; economy  in  the  public  expense,  that  labor  may 
be  lightly  burdened;  the  honest  payment  of  our  debts, 
and  sacred  preservation  of  the  public  faith;  encourage- 
ment of  agriculture,  and  of  commerce  as  its  handmaid;  the 
diffusion  of  information  and  arraignment  of  all  abuses  at 
the  bar  of  the  pubHc  reason;  freedom  of  religion,  freedom 
of  the  Press,  and  freedom  of  person,  under  the  protection 
of  the  Habeas  Corpus;  and  trial  by  juries  impartially 
selected. 

These  principles  form  the  bright  constellation  which  has 
gone  before  us,  and  guided  our  steps  through  an  age  of 
revolution  and  reformation.  The  wisdom  of  our  sages 
and  blood  of  our  heroes  have  been  devoted  to  their  attain- 
ment;  they  should  be  the  creed  of  our  political  faith,  the 


The  Revolutionary  Era  39 

text  of  civic  instruction,  the  touchstone  by  which  to  try 
the  services  of  those  we  trust;  and  should  we  wander  from 
them  in  moments  of  error  or  of  alarm,  let  us  hasten  to 
retrace  our  steps  and  to  regain  the  road  which  alone  leads 
to  peace,  liberty,  and  safety.  ... 

Relying,  then,  on  the  patronage  of  your  good  will,  I 
advance  with  obedience  to  the  work,  ready  to  retire  from 
it  whenever  you  become  sensible  how  much  better  choices 
it  is  in  your  power  to  make.  And  may  that  Infinite  Power 
which  rules  the  destinies  of  the  universe  lead  our  councils 
to  what  is  best,  and  give  them  a  favorable  issue  for  your 
peace  and  prosperity. 

The  Character  of  Washington 
(From  Jefferson's  Correspondence.    To  Doctor  Walter  Jones) 

I  think  I  knew  General  Washington  intimately  and 
thoroughly,  and  were  I  called  on  to  delineate  his  character, 
it  should  be  in  terms  like  these : 

His  mind  was  great  and  powerful,  without  being  of  the 
very  first  order;  his  penetration  strong,  though  not  so 
acute  as  that  of  a  Newton,  Bacon,  or  Locke;  and  as  far 
as  he  saw,  no  judgment  was  ever  sounder.  It  was  slow  in 
operation,  being  little  aided  by  invention  or  imagination, 
but  sure  in  conclusion.  Hence  the  common  jemark  of 
his  officers,  of  the  advantage  he  derived  from  councils  of 
war,  where,  hearing  all  suggestions,  he  selected  whatever 
was  best;  and  certainly  no  General  ever  planned  his  bat- 
tles more  judiciously.  But  if  deranged  during  the  course 
of  the  action,  if  any  member  of  his  plan  was  dislocated  by 
sudden  circumstances,  he  was  slow  in  re-adjustment.  The 
consequence  was,  that  he  often  failed  in  the  field,  and 
rarely  against  an  enemy  in  station,  as  at  Boston  and 
York.  He  was  incapable  of  fear,  meeting  personal  dangers 
with  the  calmest  unconcern.  Perhaps  the  strongest  fea- 
ture in  his  character  was  prudence,  never  acting  until 
every  circumstance,  every  consideration,  was  maturely 
weighed;  refraining  if  he  saw  a  doubt,  but,  when  once 
decided,  going  through  with  his  purpose,  whatever  ob- 


40  American  Literature 

stacks  opposed.  His  integrity  was  most  pure,  his  jus- 
tice the  most  inflexible  I  have  ever  known,  no  motives  of 
interest  or  consanguinity,  of  friendship  or  hatred,  being 
able  to  bias  his  decision.  He  was,  indeed,  in  every  sense 
of  the  words,  a  wise,  a  good,  and  a  great  man.  His  tem- 
per was  naturally  irritable  and  high  toned;  but  reflection 
and  resolution  had  obtained  a  firm  and  habitual  ascen- 
dency over  it.  If  ever,  however,  it  broke  its  bonds,  he 
was  most  tremendous  in  his  wrath.  .  .  .  His  heart  was 
not  warm  in  its  affections;  but  he  exactly  calculated  every 
man's  value,  and  gave  him  a  solid  esteem  proportioned  to 
it.  His  person,  you  know,  was  fine,  his  stature  exactly 
what  one  could  wish,  his  deportment  easy,  erect,  and 
noble;  the  best  horseman  of  hrs  'a.ge,'and^the  anost  graceful 
figure  that  could  be  seen  on  horseback.  ...  In  public, 
when  called  on  for  a  sudden  opinion,  he  was  unready,  short, 
and  embarrassed.  Yet  he  wrote  readily,  rather  diffusely, 
in  an  easy  and  correct  style.  This  he  had  acquired  by 
conversation  with  the  world,  for  his  education  was  merely 
reading,  writing  and  common  arithmetic,  to  which  he  added 
surveying  at  a  later  day. 

His  time  was  employed  in  action  chiefly,  reading  little, 
and  that  only  in  agriculture  and  English  history.  His 
correspondence  became  necessarily  extensive,  and  with 
journalizing  his  agricultural  proceedings,  occupied  most 
of  his  leisure  hours  within-doors. 

On  the  whole,  his  character  was,  in  its  mass,  perfect,  in 
nothing  bad,  in  few  points  indifferent;  and  it  may  truly 
be  said  that  never  did  nature  and  fortune  combine  more 
perfectly  to  make  a  man  great,  and  to  place  him  in  the 
same  constellation  with  whatever  worthies  have  merited 
from  man  an  everlasting  remembrance. 

(Compare  this  with  Webster's  Character  of  Washington^ 
infra  J  p.  8i.) 

//.    Songs  and  Ballads 

The  stirring  events  of  the  times  called  forth  numerous 
war  songs  and  ballads.     Perhaps  the  most  famous  ballads 


The  Revolutionary  Era  41 

of  the  day  were  the  merry  Battle  of  the  Kegs,  by  Francis 
Hopkinson  (1737-1791);  Hail  Columbia,  written  in  1798  by 
Joseph  Hopkinson  (1770-1842),  son  of  Francis;  and  The 
Ballad  of  Nathan  Hale,  composed  in  memory  of  Nathan 
Hale,  who  was  captured  and  hanged  by  the  British  as  a  spy. 

8.     Francis  Hopkinson. 

(This  ballad  was  occasioned  by  a  real  incident.  Certain  ma- 
chines, in  the  form  of  kegs,  charged  with  gunpowder,  were  sent 
down  the  river  to  annoy  the  British  shipping  then  at  Philadel- 
phia. The  danger  of  these  machines  being  discovered,  the 
British  manned  the  wharfs  and  shipping,  and  discharged  their 
small  arms  and  cannons  at  everything  they  saw  floating  in  the 
river  during  the  ebb-tide. — Author's  note.) 

The  Battle  of  the  Kegs 

Gallants  attend  and  hear  a  friend 

Trill  forth  harmonious  ditty, 
Strange  things  I'll  tell  which  late  befel 

In  Philadelphia  City. 

'Twas  early  day,  as  poets  say, 

Just  when  the  sun  was  rising, 
A  soldier  stood  on  a  log  of  wood, 

And  saw  a  thing  surprising. 

As  in  amaze  he  stood  to  gaze, 

The  truth  can't  be  denied,  sir. 
He  spied  a  score  of  kegs  or  more 

Come  floating  down  the  tide,  sir. 

A  sailor,  too,  in  jerkin  blue. 

This  strange  appearance  viewing, 

First  damn'd  his  eyes,  in  great  surprise, 
Then  said,  "  Some  mischief's  brewing. 

"  These  kegs,  I'm  told,  the  rebels  hold, 
Pack'd  up  like  pickling  herring; 

And  they're  come  down  t'  attack  the  town, 
In  this  new  way  of  ferrying." 


42  American  Literature 

The  soldier  flew,  the  sailor  too, 
And  scar'd  almost  to  death,  sir, 

Wore  out  their  shoes,  to  spread  the  news, 
And  ran  till  out  of  breath,  sir, 

Now  up  and  down  throughout  the  town, 
Most  frantic  scenes  were  acted; 

And  some  ran  here,  and  others  there. 
Like  men  almost  distracted. 

Some  fire  cri^d,  which  some  denied. 
But  said  the  earth  had  quaked; 

And  girls  and  boys  with  hideous  noise, 
Ran  through  the  street  half-naked. 

Sir  William  he,  snug  as  a  flea. 
Lay  all  this  time  a-snoring. 

Nor  dreamed  of  harm  as  he  lay  warm, 
Neither  did  Mrs.  Loring. 

Now  in  a  fright  he  starts  upright, 

Awak'd  by  such  a  clatter; 
He  rubs  both  eyes,  and  boldly  cries, 

**  For  God's  sake,  what's  the  matter?  " 

At  his  bed-side  he  then  espied. 
Sir  Erskine  at  command,  sir. 

Upon  one  foot  he  had  one  boot. 
And  th'  other  in  his  hand,  sir. 

"Arise,  arise ! "     Sir  Erskine  cries, 
''  The  rebels — more's  the  pity. 

Without  a  boat  are  all  afloat. 
And  ranged  before  the  city. 

"The  motley  crew,  in  vessels  new, 
With  Satan  for  their  guide,  sir. 

Packed  up  in  bags,  or  wooden  kegs. 
Come  driving  down  the  tide,  sir. 


The  Revolutionary  Era  43 

**Therefore  prepare  for  bloody  war 

The  kegs  must  all  be  routed, 
Or  surely  we  despised  shall  be, 

And  British  courage  doubted." 


The  kegs,  'tis  said,  tho'  strongly  made 
Of  rebel  staves  and  hoops,  sir, 

Could  not  oppose  their  powerful  foes, 
And  conquering  British  troops,  sir. 

From  morn  to  night  these  men  of  might 
Display 'd  amazing  courage; 

And  when  the  sun  was  fairly  down, 
Retir'd  to  sup  their  porrage. 

An  hundred  men  with  each  a  pen, 
Or  more  upon  my  word,  sir. 

It  is  most  true  would  be  too  few, 
Their  valor  to  record,  sir. 

Such  feats  did  they  perform  that  day, 
Against  these  wick'd  kegs,  sir. 

That,  years  to  come,  if  they  get  home 
They'll  make  their  boast  and  brags,  sir. 

9.     Joseph  Hopkinson. 

Hail  Columbia 

Hail,  Columbia !  happy  land ! 
Hail,  ye  heroes !  heaven-born  band ! 

Who  fought  and  bled  in  Freedom's  cause. 

Who  fought  and  bled  in  Freedom's  cause, 
And  when  the  storm  of  war  was  gone 
Enjoyed  the  peace  your  valor  won. 

Let  independence  be  our  boast 

Ever  mindful  what  it  cost; 

Ever  grateful  for  the  prize. 

Let  its  altar  reach  the  skies. 


44  American  Literature 

Firm,  united,  let  us  be, 
Rallying  round  our  Liberty; 
As  a  band  of  brothers  joined, 
Peace  and  safety  we  shaU  find. 

Immortal  patriots !  rise  once  more: 
Defend  your  rights,  defend  your  shore: 
Let  no  rude  foe,  with  impious  hand, 
Let  no  rude  foe,  with  impious  hand, 
Invade  the  shrine  where  sacred  Hes 
Of  toil  and"  blood  the  well-earned  prize. 
While  offering  peace  sincere  and  just, 
In  Heaven  we  place  a  manly  trust, 
That  truth  and  justice  will  prevail, 
And  every  scheme  of  bondage  fail. 

Firm,  united,  etc. 

Sound,  sound  the  trump  of  Fame ! 

Let  Washington's  great  name 

Ring  through  the  world  with  loud  applause, 
Ring  through  the  world  with  loud  applause, 

Let  every  clime  to  Freedom  dear. 

Listen  with  a  joyful  ear. 

With  equal  skill  and  godlike  power, 
He  governed  in  the  fearful  hour 
Of  horrid  war;  or  guides,  with  ease. 
The  happier  times  of  honest  peace. 

Firm,  united,  etc. 

Behold  the  chief  who  now  commands, 
Once  more  to  serve  his  country,  stands — 
The  rock  on  which  the  storm  will  beat, 
The  rock  on  which  the  storm  will  beat; 
But,  armed  in  virtue  firm  and  true, 
His  hopes  are  fixed  on  Heaven  and  you. 
When  hope  was  sinking  in  dismay. 
And  glooms  obscured  Columbia's  day. 
His  steady  mind,  from  changes  free. 
Resolved  on  death  or  liberty. 


The  Revolutionary  Era  >.  45 

Firm,  united,  let  us  be, 
Rallying  round  our  Liberty; 
As  a  band  of  brothers  joined, 
Peace  and  safety  we  shall  find. 

10.    Author  Unknown. 

(Professor  Simonds  calls  this  "  a  wonderfully  tender  and  im- 
pressive tribute  to  the  memory  of  Nathan  Hale.") 

The  Ballad  of  Nathan  Hale 

The  breezes  went  steadily  through  the  tall  pines, 
A-saying,  "oh !  hu-ush !"  a-saying  "  oh  !  hu-ush  !'* 
As  stilly  stole  by  a  bold  legion  of  horse. 
For  Hale  in  the  bush,  for  Hale  in  the  bush. 

"Keep  still !"  said  the  thrush  as  she  nestled  her  young, 
In  a  nest  by  the  road;  in  a  nest  by  the  road. 
"For  the  tyrants  are  near,  and  with  them  appear 
What  bodes  us  no  good,  what  bodes  us  no  good." 

The  brave  captain  heard  it,  and  thought  of  his  home 
In  a  cot  by  the  brook;  in  a  cot  by  the  brook. 
With  mother  and  sister  and  memories  dear, 
He  so  gayly  forsook,  he  so  gayly  forsook. 

Cooling  shades  of  the  night  were  coming  apace. 
The  tattoo  had  beat;  the  tattoo  had  beat. 
The  noble  one  sprang  from  his  dark  lurking-place, 
To  make  his  retreat,  to  make  his  retreat. 

He  warily  trod  on  the  dry  rustling  leaves. 

As  he  passed  through  the  wood;  as  he  passed  through  the 

wood; 
And  silently  gained  his  rude  launch  on  the  shore, 
As  she  played  with  the  flood,  as  she  played  with  the  flood. 

The  guards  of  the  camp  on  that  dark,  dreary  night, 
Had  a  murderous  will;  had  a  murderous  will; 
They  took  him  and  bore  him  afar  from  the  shore, 
To  a  hut  on  the  hill:  to  a  hut  on  the  hill. 


46  American  Literature 

No  mother  was  there,  nor  a  friend  who  could  cheer, 
In  that  little  stone  cell;  in  that  Uttle  stone  cell. 
But  he  trusted  in  love,  from  his  Father  above. 
In  his  heart  all  was  well;  in  his  heart  all  was  well. 

An  ominous  owl,  with  his  solemn  bass  voice, 
Sat  moaning  hard  by;  sat  moaning  hard  by: 
"The  tyrant's  proud  minions  most  gladly  rejoice, 
For  he  must  soon  die;  for  he  must  soon  die." 

The  brave  fellow  told  them,  no  thing  he  restrained, — 
The  cruel  general !  the  cruel  general ! — 
His  errand  from  camp,  of  the  ends  to  be  gained, 
And  said  that  was  all;  and  said  that  was  all. 

They  took  him  and  bound  him  and  bore  him  away, 
Down  the  hilFs  grassy  side;  down  the  hill's  grassy  side. 
'Twas  there  the  base  hirelings,  in  royal  array, 
pis  cause  did  deride;  his  cause  did  deride. 

Five  minutes  were  given,  short  moments,  no  more, 
For  him  to  repent;  for  him  to  repent. 
He  prayed  for  his  mother,  he  asked  not  another. 
To  Heaven  he  went;  to  Heaven  he  went. 

The  faith  of  a  martyr  the  tragedy  showed, 
As  he  trod  the  last  stage;  as  he  trod  the  last  stage. 
And  Britons  will  shudder  at  gallant  Hale's  blood, 
As  his  words  do  presage;  as  his  words  do  presage. 

"Thou  pale  king  of  terrors,  thou  Ufe's  gloomy  foe, 
Go  frighten  the  slave;  go  frighten  the  slave; 
Tell  tyrants,  to  you  their  allegiance  they  owe. 
No  fears  for  the  brave;  no  fears  for  the  brave." 

Prominent  among  the  Revolutionary  poets  were  John 
Trumbull,  Joel  Barlow,  and  Timothy  Dwight,  all  three  of 
them  Yale  men.  They  belonged  to  a  group  of  literary  men 
known  as  the  "Hartford  Wits." 


The  Revolutionary  Era  47 

II.  John  Trumbull  (i 750-1 831),  the  best  known  of  the 
*' Hartford  Wits,"  wrote  many  poems,  the  most  ambitious 
being  McFingal,  sl  mock  heroic  epic  modelled  on  Butler's  Httdi- 
bras.  It  depicts  the  troubles  of  a  Tory  squire  surrounded 
by  patriotic  Americans.  This  was  the  most  famous  political 
satire  of  the  Revolution.    An  extract  follows. 


McFingal  to  the  Whigs 

(From  McFingal,  Canto  II) 

Your  boasted  patriotism  is  scarce, 

And  country's  love  is  but  a  farce: 

For  after  all  the  proofs  you  bring, 

We  Tories  know  there's  no  such  thing. 

Hath  not  Dalrymple  show'd  in  print, 

And  Johnson  too,  there's  nothing  in  't; 

Produced  you  demonstration  ample, 

From  others'  and  their  own  example, 

That  self  is  still,  in  either  faction. 

The  only  principle  of  action; 

The  loadstone,  whose  attracting  tether 

Keeps  the  politic  world  together : 

And  spite  of  all  your  double  dealing. 

We  all  are  sure  'tis  so,  from  feeling. 

And  who  beUeves  you  will  not  run  ? 

Ye're  cowards,  every  mother's  son; 

And  if  you  offer  to  deny, 

We've  witnesses  to  prove  it  by. 

Attend  th'  opinion  first,  as  referee, 

Of  your  old  general,  stout  Sir  Jeffrey; 

Who  swore  that  with  five  thousand  foot 

He'd  rout  you  all,  and  in  pursuit 

Run  thro'  the  land,  as  easily 

As  camel  thro'  a  needle's  eye. 

Did  not  the  mighty  Colonel  Grant 

Against  your  courage  pour  his  rant, 

Affirm  your  universal  failure 

In  every  principle  of  valour. 

And  swear  no  scamperers  e'er  could  match  you, 


48  American  Literature 

So  swift,  a  bullet  scarce  could  catch  you  ? 
And  will  you  not  confess,  in  this 
A  judge  most  competent  he  is; 
Well  skill'd  on  running  to  decide, 
As  what  himself  has  often  tried  ? 


Have  you  not  roused,  his  force  to  try  on, 
That  grim  old  beast  the  British  Lion; 
And  know  you  not,  that  at  a  sup 
He's  large  enough  to  eat  you  up  ? 
•  ••••• 

Britain,  depend  on  't,  will  take  on  her 
T'  assert  her  dignity  and  honor, 
And  ere  she'd  lose  your  share  of  pelf, 
Destroy  your  country,  and  herself. 
For  has  not  North  declared  they  fight 
To  gain  substantial  rev'nue  by  't 
Denied  he'd  ever  deign  to  treat, 
Till  on  your  knees  and  at  his  feet? 

A  Time- Worn  Belle 

(From  The  Progress  of  Dulness) 

Poor  Harriet  now  hath  had  her  day; 
No  more  the  beaux  confess  her  sway; 
New  beauties  push  her  from  the  stage; 
She  trembles  at  th'  approach  of  age, 
And  starts  to  view  the  alter'd  face, 
That  wrinkles  at  her  in  her  glass: 
So  Satan,  in  the  monk's  tradition, 
Fear'd  when  he  met  his  apparition. 
At  length  her  name  each  coxcomb  cancels 
From  standing  lists  of  toasts  and  angels; 
And  slighted  where  she  shone  before, 
A  grace  and  goddess  now  no  more. 
Despised  by  all,  and  doom'd  to  meet 
Her  lovers  at  her  rival's  feet. 
She  flies  assemblies,  shuns  the  ball, 
And  cries  out,  vanity,  on  all; 


The  Revolutionary  Era  49 

Affects  to  scorn  the  tinsel-shows 

Of  glittering  belles  and  gaudy  beaux; 

Nor  longer  hopes  to  hide  by  dress 

The  tracks  of  age  upon  her  face. 

Now  careless  grown  of  airs  polite, 

Her  noonday  nightcap  meets  the  sight; 

Her  hair  uncomb'd  collects  together, 

With  ornaments  of  many  a  feather; 

Her  stays  for  easiness  thrown  by, 

Her  rumpled  handkerchief  awry, 

A  careless  figure  half  undress'd 

(The  reader's  wits  may  guess  the  rest) ; 

All  points  of  dress  and  neatness  carried, 

As  though  she'd  been  a  twelvemonth  married; 

She  spends  her  breath,  as  years  prevail, 

At  this  sad  wicked  world  to  rail, 

To  slander  all  her  sex  impromptu. 

And  wonder  what  the  times  will  come  to. 

12.  Joel  Barlow  (1754-1812)  wrote  a  long  epic  in  serious 
vein,  The  Columbiad,  but  is  remembered  to-day  for  the  humor- 
ous poem  The  Hasty  Pudding,  which  he  dedicated  to  Martha 
Washington. 

(From  The  Hasty  Pudding.     A  Poem  in  Three  Cantos.     Written 
at  Chambery,  in  Savoy,  January,  1793.     New  Haven,  1796) 

He  makes  a  good  breakfast  who  mixes  pudding  with  molasses. 

To  Mrs.  Washington 

Madam: — A  simplicity  in  diet,  whether  it  be  considered  with 
reference  to  the  happiness  of  individuals  or  the  prosperity  of  a 
nation,  is  of  more  consequence  than  we  are  apt  to  imagine.  In 
recommending  so  great  and  necessary  a  virtue  to  the  rational 
part  of  mankind,  I  wish  it  were  in  my  power  to  do  it  in  such  a 
manner  as  would  be  likely  to  gain  their  attention.  I  am  sen- 
sible that  it  is  one  of  those  subjects  in  which  example  has  in- 
finitely more  power  than  the  most  convincing  arguments,  or 
the  highest  charms  of  poetry.  Goldsmith's  Deserted  Village, 
though  possessing  these  two  advantages  in  a  greater  degree 
than  any  other  work  of  the  kind,  has  not  prevented  villages  in 
England  from  being  deserted.     The  apparent  interest  of  the 


50  American  Literature 

rich  individuals,  who  form  the  taste  as  well  as  the  laws  in  that 
country,  has  been  against  him;  and  with  that  interest  it  has  been 
vain  to  contend. 

The  vicious  habits  which  in  this  little  piece  I  endeavor  to 
combat,  seem  to  me  not  so  difl&cult  to  cure.  No  class  of  peo- 
ple has  any  interest  in  supporting  them,  unless  it  be  the  interest 
which  certain  families  may  feel  in  vying  with  each  other  in 
sumptuous  entertainments.  There  may  indeed  be  some  in- 
stances of  depraved  appetites  which  no  arguments  will  conquer; 
but  these  must  be  rare.  There  are  very  few  persons  but  would 
always  prefer  a  plain  dish  for  themselves,  and  would  prefer  it 
likewise  for  their  guests,  if  there  were  no  risk  of  reputation  in  the 
case.  This  difficulty  can  only  be  removed  by  example;  and  the 
example  should  proceed  from  those  whose  situation  enables 
them  to  take  the  lead  in  forming  the  manners  of  a  nation. 
Persons  of  this  description  in  America,  I  should  hope,  are 
neither  above  nor  below  the  influence  of  truth  and  reason  when 
conveyed  in  language  suited  to  the  subject. 

Whether  the  manner  I  have  chosen  to  address  my  arguments 
to  them  be  such  as  to  promise  any  success,  is  what  I  cannot 
decide.  But  I  certainly  had  hopes  of  doing  some  good,  or  I 
should  not  have  taken  the  pains  of  putting  so  many  rhymes 
together;  and  much  less  should  I  have  ventured  to  place 
your  name  at  the  head  of  these  observations. 

Your  situation  commands  the  respect  and  your  character 
the  affections  of  a  numerous  people.  These  circumstances 
impose  a  duty  upon  you,  which  I  believe  you  discharge  to  your 
own  satisfaction  and  that  of  others.  The  example  of  your 
domestic  virtues  has  doubtless  a  great  effect  among  your  coun- 
trywomen. I  only  wish  to  rank  simplicity  of  diet  among  the 
virtues.  In  that  case  it  will  certainly  be  cherished  by  you  and 
I  should  hope  more  esteemed  by  others  than  it  is  at  present. 

The  Author.  . 

The  Hasty  Pudding — Canto  I 

Ye  Alps  audacious,  through  the  heavens  that  rise, 

To  cramp  the  day  and  hide  me  from  the  skies; 
Ye  Gallic  flags,  that  o'er  their  heights  unfurled, 
Bear  death  to  kings,  and  freedom  to  the  world* 
I  sing  not  you.     A  softer  theme  I  choose, 
A  virgin  theme,  unconscious  of  the  Muse, 


The  Revolutionary  Era  51 

But  fruitful,  rich,  well  suited  to  inspire 
The  purest  frenzy  of  poetic  fire. 

Despise  it  not,  ye  bards  to  terror  steel'd 
Who  hurl  your  thunders  round  the  epic  field; 
Nor  ye  who  strain  your  midnight  throats  to  sing 
Joys  that  the  vineyard  and  the  still-house  bring; 
Or  on  some  distant  fair  your  notes  employ, 
And  speak  of  raptures  that  you  ne'er  enjoy. 
I  sing  the  sweets  I  know,  the  charms  I  feel, 
My  morning  incense,  and  my  evening  meal, 
The  sweets  of  Hasty  Pudding.     Come,  dear  bowl, 
Glide  o'er  my  palate,  and  inspire  my  soul. 
The  milk  beside  thee,  smoking  from  the  kine, 
Its  substance  mingle,  married  in  with  thine, 
Shall  cool  and  temper  thy  superior  heat. 
And  save  the  pains  of  blowing  while  I  eat. 

Oh !  could  the  smooth,  the  emblematic  song 
Flow  like  thy  genial  juices  o'er  my  tongue. 
Could  those  mild  morsels  in  my  numbers  chime, 
And,  as  they  roll  in  substance,  roll  in  rhyme, 
No  more  thy  awkward  unpoetic  name 
Should  shun  the  muse,  or  prejudice  thy  fame; 
But  rising  grateful  to  the  accustom'd  ear, 
All  bards  should  catch  it,  and  all  realms  revere ! 

13.  Timothy  D wight  (175 2-1 81 7),  the  grandson  of  Jonathan 
Edwards,  was  at  one  time  President  of  Yale  College.  One 
of  his  well-remembered  songs  follows. 

Psalm  CXXXVII 
(From  Dwight's  revision  of  Watts's  Psalms) 

I  love  thy  kingdom.  Lord, 

The  house  of  thine  abode. 
The  church,  our  blest  Redeemer  sav'd 

With  his  own  precious  blood. 

I  love  thy  church,  O  God ! 
Her  walls  before  thee  stand. 


52  American  Literature 

Dear  as  the  apple  of  thine  eye, 
And  graven  on  thy  hand. 

If  e'er  to  bless  thy  sons 

My  voice,  or  hands,  deny, 
These  hands  let  useful  skill  forsake, 

This  voice  in  silence  die. 

For  her  my  tears  shall  fall. 

For  her  my  prayers  ascend; 
To  her  my  cares  and  toils  be  given 

Till  toils  and  cares  shall  end. 

Beyond  my  highest  joy 

I  prize  her  heavenly  ways, 
Her  sweet  communion,  solemn  vows, 

Her  hymns  of  love  and  praise. 

Jesus,  thou  friend  divine, 

Our  Saviour  and  our  King, 
Thy  hand  from  every  snare  and  foe 

Shall  great  deliverance  bring. 

Sure  as  thy  truth  shall  last, 

To  Zion  shall  be  given 
The  brightest  glories  earth  can  yield, 

And  brighter  bliss  of  heaven. 

///.     Other  Literary  Records 

This  period  is  interesting  from  the  purely  literary  view- 
point-as  being  an  era  of  beginnings.  At  this  time  we  dis- 
cover both  the  first  American  poet  and  the  first  American 
novelist.  Philip  Freneau,  in  such  poems  as  The  Wild 
Honeysuckle,  is  decidedly  the  forerunner  of  Bryant;  and 
Charles  Brockden  Brown,  the  father  of  American  fiction, 
is  the  herald  of  Poe.  Here,  too,  we  find  the  beginnings 
of  the  American  drama.     In  April,   1767,  The  Prince  of 


J^he  Revolutionary  Era  53 

Parthia,  a  tragedy  written  by  Thomas  Godfrey,  a  young 
American  author,  was  performed  at  the  Southwark  Theatre, 
Philadelphia.  Hugh  H.  Brackenridge  in  1776  wrote  a 
play  called  The  Battle  of  Bunker  Hill,  He  was  then  a 
school-teacher,  and  the  play  was  presented  by  his  pupils. 
Afterward  he  became  a  judge  of  the  Supreme  Court  of 
Pennsylvania.  The  first  American  play  to  be  produced 
by  a  professional  company  was  The  Contrast,  a  comedy  of 
American  life  compared  to  English.  It  was  written  by 
Royall  Tyler  and  performed  in  New  York,  April  16,  1787. 

14.  Philip  Freneau  (17  5  2-1 83  2)  was  born  in  New  York 
City  and  educated  at  Princeton.  During  the  Revolution  he 
was  captured  by  the  British  and  spent  some  time  on  a  prison 
ship.  He  wrote  much  that  is  of  slight  literary  worth,  but  a 
few  lyrics  that  reveal  the  true  poet,  as,  for  instance.  The  Wild 
Honeysuckle  and  On  a  Honey  Bee  Drinking  from  a  Glass  of 
Winej  both  of  which  are  given  below. 

The  Wild  Honeysuckle 

Fair  flower,  that  dost  so  comely  grow, 

Hid  in  this  silent,  dull  retreat. 
Untouched  thy  honied  blossoms  blow, 
Unseen  thy  little  branches  greet: 
No  roving  foot  shall  crush  thee  here, 
No  busy  hand  provoke  a  tear. 

By  Nature's  self  in  white  arrayed, 

She  bade  thee  shun  the  vulgar  eye, 
And  planted  here  the  guardian  shade. 
And  sent  soft  waters  murmuring  by; 
Thus  quietly  thy  summer  goes, 
Thy  days  declining  to  repose. 

Smit  with  those  charms,  that  must  decay, 

I  grieve  to  see  your  future  doom; 
They  died — nor  were  those  flowers  more  gay. 


54  American  Literature 

The  flowers  that  did  in  Eden  bloom; 
Unpitying  frosts  and  Autumn's  power, 
Shall  leave  no  vestige  of  this  flower. 

From  morning  suns  and  evening  dews 

At  first  thy  little  being  came; 
If  nothing  once,  you  nothing  lose, 
For  when  you  die  you  are  the  same; 
The  space  between  is  but  an  hour, 
The  frail  duration  of  a  flower. 

On  a  Honey  Bee  Drinking  from  a  Glass  of  Wine  and 
Drowned  Therein 

Thou,  bom  to  sip  the  lake  or  spring, 
Or  (^uaff  the  waters  of  the  stream. 
Why  hither  come  on  vagrant  wing  ? — 
Does  Bacchus  tempting  seem — 
Did  he,  for  you,  this  glass  prepare? — 
Will  I  admit  you  to  a  share  ? 

Did  storms  harass  or  foes  perplex, 
Did  wasps  or  king-birds  bring  dismay — 
Did  wars  distress,  or  labours  vex, 
Or  did  you  miss  your  way  ? — 
A  better  seat  you  could  not  take 
Than  on  the  margin  of  this  lake. 

Welcome ! — I  hail  you  to  my  glass: 
All  welcome,  here,  you  fmd; 
Here  let  the  cloud  of  trouble  pass, 
Here,  be  all  care  resigned. — 
This  fluid  never  fails  to  please. 
And  drown  the  griefs  of  men  or  bees. 

What  forced  you  here  we  cannot  know, 
And  you  will  scarcely  tell — 
But  cheery  we  would  have  you  go 
And  bid  a  glad  farewell; 


The  Revolutionary  Era  55 

On  lighter  wings  we  bid  you  fly, 
Your  dart  will  now  all  foes  defy. 

Yet  take  not,  oh !  too  deep  to  drink, 

And  in  this  ocean  die; 

Here  bigger  bees  than  you  might  sink, 

Even  bees  full  six  feet  high. 

Like  Pharaoh,  then,  you  would  be  said 

To  perish  in  a  sea  of  red. 

Do  as  you  please,  your  will  is  mine; 

Enjoy  it  without  fear — 

And  your  grave  will  be  this  glass  of  wine, 

Your  epitaph — a  tear — 

Go,  take  your  seat  in  Charon's  boat, 

We'll  tell  the  hive,  you  died  afloat. 

15.  Charles  Brockden  Brown  (1771-1810)  was  born  in 
Philadelphia  but  spent  most  of  his  life  in  New  York.  He  made 
literature  the  business  of  his  life;  in  fact,  he  was  the  first  Amer- 
ican to  adopt  letters  as  a  profession.  His  first  story,  Wielandj 
was  immediately  successful.  There  is  a  touch  of  both  realism 
and  weirdness  in  his  tales.  Embedded  in  his  long  rambling 
romances  are  many  sliort  stories,  but  he  lacked  the  genius  to 
crystallize  them  into  artistic  form. 

The  Yellow  Fever  in  Philadelphia 

(From  Arthur  Merwyn) 

In  proportion  as  I  drew  near  the  city,  the  tokens  of  its 
calamitous  condition  became  more  apparent.  Every  farm- 
house was  filled  with  supernumerary  tenants,  fugitives 
from  home,  and  haunting  the  skirts  of  the  road,  eager  to 
detain  every  passenger  with  inquiries  after  news.  The 
passengers  were  numerous;  for  the  tide  of  emigration  was 
by  no  means  exhausted.  Some  were  on  foot,  bearing  in 
their  countenances  the  tokens  of  their  recent  terror,  and 
filled  with  mournful  reflections  on  the  forlornness  of  their 
state.  Few  had  secured  to  themselves  an  asylum;  some 
were  without  the  means  of  paying  for  victuals  or  lodgings 


56  American  Literature 

for  the  coming  night;  others,  who  were  not  thus  destitute, 
yet  knew  not  whither  to  apply  for  entertainment,  every 
house  being  already  overstocked  with  inhabitants,  or  bar- 
ring its  inhospitable  doors  at  their  approach.  .  .  . 

Between  these  and  the  fugitives  whom  curiosity  had  led 
to  the  road,  dialogues  frequently  took  place,  to  which  I  was 
suffered  to  Hsten.  From  every  mouth  the  tale  of  sorrow 
was  repeated  with  new  aggravations.  Pictures  of  their 
own  distress,  or  of  that  of  their  neighbors,  were  exhibited 
in  all  the  hues  which  imagination  can  annex  to  pestilence 
and  poverty.  .  .  .  My  frequent  pauses  to  listen  to  the  nar- 
ratives of  travellers  contributed  ...  to  procrastination. 
The  sun  had  nearly  set  before  I  reached  the  precincts  of 
the  city.  I  pursued  the  track  which  I  had  formerly  taken, 
and  entered  High  Street  after  nightfall. 

Instead  of  equipages  and  a  throng  of  passengers,  the 
voice  of  levity  and  glee,  which  I  had  formerly  observed,  and 
which  the  mildness  of  the  season  would,  at  other  times, 
have  produced,  I  found  nothing  but  a  dreary  solitude. 

The  market  place,  and  each  side  of  this  magnificent 
avenue,  were  illuminated,  as  before,  by  lamps;  but  between 
the  verge  of  Schuylkill  and  the  heart  of  the  city  I  met 
not  more  than  a  dozen  figures;  and  these  were  ghost-like, 
wrapped  in  cloaks,  from  behind  which  they  cast  upon  me 
glances  of  wonder  and  suspicion,  and  as  I  approached, 
changed  their  course,  to  avoid  touching  me.  Their  clothes 
were  sprinkled  with  vinegar  and  their  nostrils  defended 
from  contagion  by  some  powerful  perfume. 

I  cast  a  look  upon  the  houses,  which  I  recollected  to  have 
formerly  been,  at  this  hour,  brilliant  with  lights,  resound- 
ing with  lively  voices,  and  thronged  with  busy  faces.  Now 
they  were  closed,  above  and  below;  dark,  and  without 
tokens  of  being  inhabited.  From  the  upper  windows  of 
some,  a  gleam  sometimes  fell  upon  the  pavement  I  was 
traversing,  and  showed  that  their  tenants  had  not  fled, 
but  were  secluded  or  disabled 

These  tokens  were  new,  and  awakened  all  my  panics. 
Death  seemed  to  hover  over  this  scene,  and  I  dreaded  that 
the  floating  pestilence  had  already  lighted  on  my  frame. 


The  Revolutionary  Era  57 

I  had  scarcely  overcome  these  tremors,  when  I  approached 
a  house,  the  door  of  which  was  opened,  and  before  which 
stood  a  vehicle,  which  I  presently  recognized  to  be  a  hearse. 

The  driver  was  seated  on  it.  I  stood  still  to  mark  his 
visage,  and  to  observe  the  course  which  he  proposed  to 
take.  Presently  a  coffin,  borne  by  two  men,  issued  from 
the  house.  The  driver  was  a  negro;  but  his  companions 
were  white.  Their  features  were  marked  by  ferocious  in- 
difference to  danger  or  pity.  One  of  them,  as  he  assisted 
in  thrusting  the  coffin  into  the  cavity  provided  for  it, 
said,  .  .  .  *'It  wasn't  the  fever  that  ailed  him,  but  the  sight 
of  the  girl  and  her  mother  on  the  floor  ...  it  wasn't 
right  to  put  him  in  his  coffin  before  the  breath  was  fairly 
gone.  I  thought  the  last  look  he  gave  me  told  me  to  stay 
a  few  minutes." 

''Pshaw!  He  could  not  live"  [said  the  other].  "The 
sooner  dead  the  better  for  him;  as  well  as  for  us.  Do  you 
mark  how  he  eyed  us  when  we  carried  away  his  wife  and 
daughter?  I  never  cried  in  my  life,  since  I  was  knee- 
high,  but  curse  me,  if  I  ever  felt  in  better  tune  for  the 
business  than  just  then.  Hey!"  continued  he,  looking  up, 
and  observing  me  standing  a  few  paces  distant,  and  listen- 
ing to  their  discourse;  "what's  wanted?    Anybody  dead?" 

I  stayed  not  to  answer  or  parley,  but  hurried  forward. 
My  joints  trembled,  and  cold  drops  stood  on  my  forehead. 
I  was  ashamed  of  my  own  infirmity;  and,  by  vigorous 
efforts  of  my  reason,  regained  some  degree  of  composure. 
The  evening  had  now  advanced,  and  it  behooved  me  to 
procure  accommodation  at  some  of  the  inns.  .  .  . 

I  proceeded,  in  a  considerable  degree  at  random.  At 
length  I  reached  a  spacious  building  in  Fourth  Street, 
which  the  sign-post  showed  me  to  be  an  inn.  I  knocked 
loudly  and  often  at  the  door.  At  length  a  female  opened 
the  window  of  the  second  story,  and,  in  a  tone  of  peevish- 
ness, demanded  what  I  wanted.  I  told  her  that  I  wanted 
lodging. 

.  "Go  hunt  for  it  somewhere  else,"  said  she;  "you'll  find 
none  here."  I  began  to  expostulate;  but  she  shut  the  win- 
dow with  quickness  and  left  me  to  my  own  reflections.  .  .  . 


58  American  Literature 

i6.  Royall  Tyler  (i 757-1826),  a  Vermont  jurist,  was  our 
first  successful  playwright.  He  wrote  many  dramas,  the  most 
popular  of  which  was  The  Contrast^  an  extract  from  which  is 
given  below. 

The   First  American   Comedy  Regularly  Produced 

(the  contrast,  a  comedy  in  five  acts:  written  by  a 
citizen  of  the  united  states — performed  in  1 787, 

at  THE  theatre  IN  JOHN  STREET,  NEW  YORK — 179O.) 

(From  The  Advertisement) 

In  justice  to  the  Author  it  may  be  proper  to  observe  that  this 
Comedy  has  many  claims  to  the  public  indulgence,  independent 
of  its  intrinsic  merits:  It  is  the  first  essay  of  American  genius 
in  a  difficult  species  of  composition;  it  was  written  by  one  who 
never  critically  studied  the  rules  of  the  drama,  and,  indeed,  had 
seen  but  few  of  the  exhibitions  of  the  stage;  it  was  undertaken 
and  finished  in  the  course  of  three  weeks;  and  the  profits  of 
one  night's  performance  were  appropriated  to  the  benefit  of 
the  sufferers  by  the  fire  at  Boston. 

Prologue,  In  Rebuke  Of  The  Prevailing  Anglomania 

Exult  each  patriot  heart ! — this  night  is  shown 

A  piece,  which  we  may  fairly  call  our  own ; 

Where  the  proud  titles  of  ''My  Lord  !  Your  Grace !" 

To  humble  "Mr."  and  plain  *'Sir"  give  place. 

Our  author  pictures  not  from  foreign  climes 

The  fashions,  or  the  follies  of  the  times; 

But  has  confined  the  subject  of  his  work 

To  the  gay  scenes — the  circles  of  New  York. 

On  native  themes  his  Muse  displays  her  powers; 

If  ours  the  faults,  the  virtues  too  are  ours. 

Why  should  our  thoughts  to  distant  countries  roam, 

When  each  refinement  can  be  found  at  home  ? 

Who  travels  now  to  ape  the  rich  or  great, 

To  deck  an  equipage  and  roll  in  state; 

To  court  the  graces,  or  to  dance  with  ease, — 

Or  by  hypocrisy  to  strive  to  please  ? 

Our  free-born  ancestors  such  arts  despised; 


The  Revolutionary  Era  59 

Genuine  sincerity  alone  they  prized; 

Their  minds  with  honest  emulation  fired, 

To  solid  good — not  ornament — aspired; 

Or,  if  ambition  roused  a  bolder  flame, 

Stern  virtue  throve,  where  indolence  was  shame. 

But  modern  youths,  with  imitative  sense. 
Deem  taste  in  dress  the  proof  of  excellence; 
And  spurn  the  meanness  of  your  homespun  arts, 
Since  homespun  habits  would  obscure  their  parts; 
Whilst  all,  which  aims  at  splendor  and  parade, 
Must  come  from  Europe,  and  be  ready-made. 
Strange  we  should  thus  our  native  worth  disclaim, 
And  check  the  progress  of  our  rising  fame. 
Yet  one,  whilst  imitation  bears  the  sway, 
Aspires  to  nobler  heights,  and  points  the  way. 
Be  roused,  my  friends !  his  bold  example  view; 
Let  your  own  bards  be  proud  to  copy  you ! 
Should  rigid  critics  reprobate  our  play. 
At  least  the  patriotic  heart  will  say, 
"Glorious  our  fall,  since  in  a  noble  cause; 
The  bold  attempt  alone  demands  applause." 
Still  may  the  wisdom  of  the  Comic  Muse 
Exalt  your  merits,  or  your  faults  accuse. 
But  think  not  'tis  her  aim  to  be  severe; — 
We  all  are  mortals,  and  as  mortals  err. 
If  candor  pleases,  we  are  truly  blest; 
Vice  trembles,  when  compelled  to  stand  confessed. 
Let  not  light  censure  on  your  faults  offend. 
Which  aims  not  to  expose  them,  but  amend. 
Thus  does  our  author  to  your  candor  trust; 
Conscious  the  free  are  generous,  as  just. 

IV.    A  Literary  Anomaly 

17.  Phillis  Wheatley  Peters,  a  negro  girl  brought  from 
Africa  at  the  age  of  eight,  became  a  slave  in  a  Boston  family. 
She  was  very  precocious,  learned  easily,  and  began  early  to 
write  verses  imitating  the  English  poets  of  the  eighteenth  cen- 
tury. A  volume  of  her  poems  was  published  in  1773.  They 
show  little  creative  talent  but  ready  imitative  ability. 


60  American  Literature 


To  The  Right  Honorable  William,  Earl  of 
Dartmouth 

Hail,  happy  day,  when,  smiling  like  the  mom, 
Fair  Freedom  rose  New  England  to  adorn ! 
The  northern  clime  beneath  her  genial  ray,  ' 
Dartmouth,  congratulates  thy  bhssful  sway: 
Elate  with  hope  her  race  no  longer  mourns. 
Each  soul  expands,  each  grateful  bosom  burns, 
While  in  thine  hand  with  pleasure  we  behold, 
The  silken  reins,  and  Freedom's  charms  unfold. 
Long  lost  to  realms  beneath  the  northern  skies 
She  shines  supreme,  while  hated  Faction  dies. 
Soon  as  appeared  the  Goddess  long  desired. 
Sick  at  the  view,  she  languished  and  expired; 
Thus  from  the  splendors  of  the  morning  light 
The  owl  in  sadness  seeks  the  caves  of  night. 

No  more,  America,  in  mournful  strain, 

Of  wrongs,  and  grievance  unredressed  complain; 

No  longer  shalt  thou  dread  the  iron  chain. 

Which  wanton  Tyranny  with  lawless  hand 

Had  made,  and  with  it  meant  to  enslave  the  land. 

Should  you,  my  lord,  while  you  peruse  my  song. 
Wonder  from  whence  my  love  of  Freedom  sprung, 
Whence  flow  these  wishes  for  the  common  good, 
By  feeling  hearts  alone  best  understood, 
I,  young  in  life,  by  seeming  cruel  fate 
Was  snatched  from  Afric's  fancied  happy  seat: 
What  pangs  excruciating  must  molest. 
What  sorrows  labor  in  my  parents'  breast ! 
Steeled  was  that  soul  and  by  no  misery  moved 
That  from  a  father  seized  his  babe  beloved: 
Such,  such  my  case.     And  can  I  then  but  pray 
Others  may  never  feel  tyrannic  sway  ? 


The  Revolutionary  Era  61 


BIBLIOGRAPHY 

I.    For  Further  Illustration 

Orations  and  State  Papers 

Brewer,  D.  J.:  The  World's  Best  Orations. 

Bryan,  W.  J.:  The  World's  Famous  Orations.     (Vol.  VIII.) 

Cairns,  W.  B.:  Selections  from  Early  American  Writers.  1607- 
1800. 

Carpenter,  G.  R.:  American  Prose. 

Depew,  C.  M.:  The  Library  of  Oratory.     (Vol.  III.) 

Duyckinck,  E.  A.  and  G.  L.:  Cyclopcedia  of  American  Liter- 
ature. 

Moore,  F.:  American  Eloquence. 

Stedman  and  Hutchinson:  Library  of  American  Literature, 
(Vols.  II,  III,  IV.) 

Songs  and  Ballads 

Long,  A.  W.:  American  Poems.     1776-1000. 

Matthews,  B.:  Poems  of  American  Patriotism. 

Moore,  F.:  Songs  and  Ballads  of  the  American  Revolution. 

Stedman    and    Hutchinson:    Library    of  American    Literature, 

(Vol.  III.) 
Stevenson,  Burton  E.:  Poems  of  American  History. 

Other  Literary  Records 

Carpenter,  G.  R.:  American  Prose. 

Duyckinck,  E.  A.  and   G.  L.:  Cyclopedia  of  American  Litera* 

ture. 
Stedman,  E.  C:  An  American  Anthology. 
Stedman    and    Hutchinson:    Library    of   American    Literature. 

(Vols.  Ill  and  IV.) 

11.    For  the  Period 

Churchill,  Winston:  Richard  Carvel. 
Cooper,  J.  F. :  The  Spy. 

The  Pilot. 
Emerson,  R.  W.:  Concord  Hymn. 
Ford,  Paul  Leicester:  Janice  Meredith. 
Johnston,  Mary:  Lewis  Rand. 


62  Ainerican  Literature 

Longfellow,  H.  W. :  Paul  Revere' s  Ride. 
Mitchell,  S.  Weir:  Hugh  Wynne. 
Pierpont,  John:  Warren's  Address. 

Trumbull,  James  H.:  The  Origin  of  McFingal.    In  Stedman  and 
Hutchinson,  vol.  VII. 

(See  also  General  Bibliography,  supra,  p.  3.) 


PART  II 
THE  NATIONAL  PERIOD 

CHAPTER  III 

THE  EARLY  WRITERS 

/.    Great  Names 

With  the  close  of  the  Revolution,  the  adoption  of  the 
Constitution,  and  the  launching  of  the  ship  of  state  Amer- 
ica came  to  a  realization  of  self  and  began  to  exhibit  that 
self  in  literary  as  well  as  political  activity.  Our  authors 
for  the  first  time  wrote  as  Americans,  our  contribution  to 
the  world  of  literature  from  now  on  was  a  distinctive  prod- 
uct, the  creation  of  a  new  people. 

I.  Washington  Irving  (i 783-1859),  the  "Father  of  Amer- 
ican Letters,"  was  the  first  American  writer  to  achieve  inter- 
national fame.  He  spent  many  years  abroad,  was  Secretary 
to  the  A.merican  legation  in  London  and  afterward  Minister 
to  Spain.  In  1830  he  was  awarded  one  of  the  two  medals 
given  annually  by  the  Royal  Society  of  Literature  to  authors 
of  distinguished  merit.  Oxford  conferred  upon  him  the  degree 
of  D.C.L.  He  wrote  under  the  pseudonyms  of  Diedrich  Knicker- 
bocker, Jonathan  Oldstyle,  and  Geoffrey  Crayon.  His  Knicker- 
bocker History  of  New  York  is  considered  a  masterpiece  of 
American  humor.  Irving's  best  work  is  to  be  found  in  his 
sketches.  His  home,  Sunnyside  at  Tarrytown  on  the  Hudson, 
is  sometimes  spoken  of  as  the  Abbotsford  of  America  because 
its  popularity  with  tourists  is  about  as  great  as  that  of  the 
home  of  Sir  Walter  Scott. 

63 


64  Ajnerican  Literature 

The  Adventure  of  My  Aunt 

(From  Tales  of  a  Traveller) 

My  aunt  was  a  lady  of  large  frame,  strong  mind,  and 
great  resolution:  she  was  what  might  be  termed  a  very 
manly  woman.  My  uncle  was  a  thin,  puny  little  man,  ' 
very  meek  and  acquiescent,  and  no  match  for  my  aunt. 
It  was  observed  that  he  dwindled  and  dwindled  gradually 
away,  from  the  day  of  his  marriage.  His  wife's  powerful 
mind  was  too  much  for  him;  it  wore  him  out.  My  aunt, 
however,  tool^  all  possible  care  of  him;  had  half  the  doc- 
tors in  town  to  prescribe  for  him;  made  him  take  all  their 
prescriptions,  and  dosed  him  with  physic  enough  to  cure 
a  whole  hospital.  All  was  in  vain.  My  uncle  grew  worse 
and  worse  the  more  dosing  and  nursing  he  underwent, 
until  in  the  end  he  added  another  to  the  long  hst  of  matri- 
monial victims  who  have  been  killed  with  kindness. 

''And  was  it  his  ghost  that  appeared  to  her?"  asked  the 
inquisitive  gentleman,  who  had  questioned  the  former 
story-teller. 

*'You  shall  hear,"  replied  the  narrator. — My  aunt  took 
on  mightily  for  the  death  of  her  poor  husband.  Perhaps 
she  felt  some  compunction  at  having  given  him  so  much 
physic,  and  nursed  him  into  the  grave.  At  any  rate,  she 
did  all  that  a  widow  could  do  to  honor  his  memory.  She 
spared  no  expense  in  either  the  quantity  or  quality  of 
her  mourning  weeds;  wore  a  miniature  of  him  about  her 
neck  as  large  as  a  little  sun-dial,  and  had  a  full  length  por- 
trait of  him  always  hanging  in  her  bed-chamber.  All  the 
world  extolled  her  conduct  to  the  skies;  and  it  was  deter- 
mined that  a  woman  who  behaved  so  well  to  the  memory 
of  one  husband  deserved  soon  to  get  another. 

It  was  not  long  after  this  that  she  went  to  take  up  her 
residence  in  an  old  country-seat  in  Derbyshire,  which  had 
long  been  in  the  care  of  merely  a  steward  and  a  house- 
keeper. She  took  most  of  her  servants  with  her,  intending 
to  make  it  her  principal  abode.  The  house  stood  in  a 
lonely,  wild  part  of  the  country,  among  the  gray  Derby- 


The  Early   Writers  Q5 

shire  hills,  with  a  murderer  hanging  in  chains  on  a  bleak 
height  in  full  view. 

The  servants  from  town  were  half  frightened  out  of  their 
wits  at  the  idea  of  Hving  in  such  a  dismal,  pagan-looking 
place;  especially  when  they  got  together  in  the  servants' 
hall  in  the  evening,  and  compared  notes  on  all  the  hob- 
goblin stories  picked  up  in  the  course  of  the  day.  They 
were  afraid  to  venture  alone  about  the  gloomy,  black  look-, 
ing  chambers.  My  lady's  maid,  who  was  troubled  with 
nerves,  declared  she  could  never  sleep  alone  in  such  a 
''gashly  rummaging  old  building";  and  the  footman,  who 
was  a  kind-hearted  young  fellow,  did  all  in  his  power  to 
cheer  her  up. 

My  aunt  was  struck  with  the  lonely  appearance  of  the 
house.  Before  going  to  bed,  therefore,  she  examined  well 
the  fastnesses  of  the  doors  and  windows;  locked  up  the 
plate  with  her  own  hands,  and  carried  the  keys,  together 
with  a  Httle  box  of  money  and  jewels,  to  her  own  room; 
for  she  was  a  notable  woman,  and  always  saw  to  all  things 
herself.  Having  put  the  keys  under  her  pillow,  and  dis- 
missed her  maid,  she  sat  by  her  toilet,  arranging  her  hair; 
for  being,  in  spite  of  her  grief  for  my  uncle,  rather  a  buxom 
widow,  she  was  somewhat  particular  about  her  person. 
She  sat  for  a  little  while  looking  at  her  face  in  the  glass, 
first  on  one  side,  then  on  the  other,  as  ladies  are  apt  to  do 
when  they  would  ascertain  whether  they  have  been  in  good 
looks;  for  a  roistering  country  squire  of  the  neighborhood, 
with  whom  she  had  flirted  when  a  girl,  had  called  that 
day  to  welcome  her  to  the  country. 

All  of  a  sudden  she  thought  she  heard  something  move 
behind  her.  She  looked  hastily  round,  but  there  was 
nothing  to  be  seen, — nothing  but  the  grimly  painted  por- 
trait of  her  poor  dear  man,  hanging  against  the  wall. 

She  gave  a  heavy  sigh  to  his  memory,  as  she  was  accus- 
tomed to  do  whenever  she  spoke  of  him  in  company,  and 
then  went  on  adjusting  her  night-dress,  and  thinking  of 
the  squire.  Her  sigh  was  reechoed,  or  answered,  by  a 
long-drawn  breath.  She  looked  round  again,  but  no  one 
was  to  be  seen.     She  ascribed  these  sounds  to  the  wind 


66  American  Literature 

oozing  through  the  rat-holes  of  the  old  mansion,  and  pro- 
ceeded leisurely  to  put  her  hair  in  papers,  when,  all  at  once, 
she  thought  she  perceived  one  of  the  eyes  of  the  portrait 
move. 

*'The  back  of  her  head  being  towards  it !"  said  the  story- 
teller with  the  ruined  head, — ^'good  !" 

*'Yes,  sir!"  replied  dryly  the  narrator,  "her  back  being 
towards  the  portrait,  but  her  eyes  fixed  on  its  reflection 
in  the  glass." — Well,  as  I  was  saying,  she  perceived  one  of 
the  eyes  of  the  portrait  move.  So  strange  a  circumstance, 
as  you  may  well  suppose,  gave  her  a  sudden  shock.  To 
assure  herself  of  the  fact,  she  put  one  hand  to  her  forehead 
as  if  rubbing  it;  peeped  through  the  fingers,  and  moved 
the  candle  with  the  other  hand.  The  Hght  of  the  taper 
gleamed  on  the  eye,  and  was  reflected  from  it.  She  was 
sure  it  moved.  Nay,  more,  it  seemed  to  give  her  a  wink, 
as  she  had  sometimes  known  her  husband  to  do  when  Uving ! 
It  struck  a  momentary  chill  to  her  heart;  for  she  was  a 
lone  woman,  and  felt  herself  fearfully  situated. 

The  chill  was  but  transient.  My  aunt,  who  was  almost 
as  resolute  a  personage  as  your  uncle,  sir,  (turning  to  the 
old  story-teller,)  became  instantly  calm  and  collected.  She 
went  on  adjusting  her  dress.  She  even  hummed  an  air, 
and  did  not  make  even  a  single  false  note.  She  casually 
overturned  a  dressing-box;  took  a  candle  and  picked  up 
the  articles  one  by  one  from  the  floor;  pursued  a  rolling 
pin-cushion  that  was  making  the  best  of  its  way  under 
the  bed;  then  opened  the  door;  looked  for  an  instant  into 
the  corridor,  as  if  in  doubt  whether  to  go;  and  then  walked 
quietly  out. 

She  hastened  down-stairs,  ordered  the  servants  to  arm 
themselves  with  the  weapons  first  at  hand,  placed  herself 
at  their  head,  and  returned  almost  immediately. 

Her  hastily  levied  army  presented  a  formidable  force. 
The  steward  had  a  rusty  blunder-buss,  the  coachman  a 
loaded  whip,  the  footman  a  pair  of  horse-pistols,  the  cook 
a  huge  chopping-knife,  and  the  butler  a  bottle  in  each 
hand.  My  aunt  led  the  van  with  a  red-hot  poker,  and  in 
my  opinion  she  was  the  most  formidable  of  the  party. 


The  Early  Writers  67 

The  waiting-maid,  who  dreaded  to  stay  alone  in  the  ser- 
vants' hall,  brought  up  the  rear,  smelUng  at  a  broken 
bottle  of  volatile  salts,  and  expressing  her  terror  of  the 
ghostesses.  *' Ghosts!"  said  my  aunt,  resolutely.  *'I'll 
singe  their  whiskers  for  them !" 

They  entered  the  chamber.  All  was  still  and  undis- 
turbed as  when  she  had  left  it.  They  approached  the 
portrait  of  my  uncle. 

''Pull  down  that  picture!"  cried  my  aunt.  A  heavy 
groan,  and  a  sound  like  the  chattering  of  teeth,  issued 
from  the  portrait.  The  servants  shrunk  back;  the  maid 
uttered  a  faint  shriek,  and  clung  to  the  footman  for  sup- 
port. 

"Instantly!"  added  my  aunt,  with  a  stamp  of  the  foot. 

The  picture  was  pulled  down,  and  from  a  recess  behind  it, 
in  which  had  formerly  stood  a  clock,  they  hauled  forth  a 
round-shouldered,  black-bearded  varlet,  with  a  knife  as  long 
as  my  arm,  but  trembling  all  over  like  an  aspen-leaf. 

"Well,  and  who  was  he?  No  ghost,  I  suppose,"  said 
the  inquisitive  gentleman. 

"A  Knight  of  the  Post,"  replied  the  narrator,  "who  had 
been  smitten  with  the  worth  of  the  wealthy  widow;  or 
rather  a  marauding  Tarquin,  who  had  stolen  into  her 
chamber  to  violate  her  purse,  and  rifle  her  strong  box, 
when  all  the  house  should  be  asleep.  In  plain  terms," 
continued  he,  "the  vagabond  was  a  loose  idle  fellow  of 
the  neighborhood,  who  had  once  been  a  servant  in  the 
house,  and  had  been  employed  to  assist  in  arranging  it 
for  the  reception  of  its  mistress.  He  confessed  that  he 
had  contrived  this  hiding-place  for  his  nefarious  purpose, 
and  had  borrowed  an  eye  from  the  portrait  by  way  of  a 
reconnoitring-hole." 

"And  what  did  they  do  with  him? — did  they  hang 
him?"  resumed  the  questioner. 

"Hang  him! — how  could  they?"  exclaimed  a  beetle- 
browed  barrister,  with  a  hawk's  nose.  "The  offence  was 
not  capital.  No  robbery,  no  assault  had  been  committed. 
No  forcible  entry  or  breaking  into  the  premises" 

"My  aunt,"  said  the  narrator,  "was  a  woman  of  spirit. 


68  American  Literature 

and  apt  to  take  the  law  in  her  own  hands.  She  had  her 
own  notions  of  cleanliness  also.  She  ordered  the  fellow 
to  be  drawn  through  the  horse-pond,  to  cleanse  away  all 
offenses,  and  then  to  be  well  rubbed  down  with  an  oaken 
towel." 

''And  what  became  of  him  afterwards?"  said  the  in- 
quisitive gentleman. 

"I  do  not  exactly  know.  I  believe  he  was  sent  on  a 
voyage  of  improvement  to  Botany  Bay." 

''And  your  aunt,"  said  the  inquisitive  gentleman;  "I'll 
warrant  she  took  care  to  make  her  maid  sleep  in  the  room 
with  her  after  that." 

"No,  sir,  she  did  better;  she  gave  her  hand  shortly 
after  to  the  roistering  squire;  for  she  used  to  observe,  that 
it  was  a  dismal  thing  for  a  woman  to  sleep  alone  in  the 
country." 

She  was  right,"  observed  the  inquisitive  gentleman, 
nodding  sagaciously;  "but  I  am  sorry  they  did  not  hang 
that  fellow."  .  .  . 

The  Mysterious  Chambers 

(From  The  Alhambra) 

As  I  was  rambling  one  day  about  the  Moorish  halls, 
my  attention  was,  for  the  first  time,  attracted  to  a  door 
in  a  remote  gallery,  communicating  apparently  with  some 
part  of  the  Alhambra  which  I  had  not  yet  explored.  I 
attempted  to  open  it,  but  it  was  locked.  I  knocked,  but 
no  one  answered,  and  the  sound  seemed  to  reverberate 
through  empty  chambers.  Here  then  was  a  mystery. 
Here  was  the  haunted  wing  of  the  castle.  How  was  I  to 
get  at  the  dark  secrets  here  shut  up  from  the  public  eye? 
Should  I  come  privately  at  night  with  lamp  and  sword, 
according  to  the  prying  custom  of  heroes  of  romance;  or 
should  I  endeavor  to  draw  the  secret  from  Pepe  the  stut- 
tering gardener;  or  the  ingenuous  Dolores,  or  the  loqua- 
cious Mateo  ?  Or  should  I  go  frankly  and  openly  to  Dame 
Antonia  the  chatelaine,  and  ask  her  all  about  it?  I  chose 
the  latter  course,  as  being  the  simplest  though  the  least 


The  Early  Writers  69 

romantic;  and  found,  somewhat  to  my  disappointment, 
that  there  was  no  mystery  in  the  case.  I  was  welcome  to 
explore  the  apartment,  and  there  was  the  key. 


When  I  returned  to  my  quarters,  in  the  governor's 
apartment,  everything  seemed  tame  and  common-place 
after  the  poetic  region  I  had  left.  The  thought  suggested 
itself:  Why  could  I  not  change  my  quarters  to  these 
vacant  chambers  ?  that  would  indeed  be  living  in  the  Al- 
hambra,  surrounded  by  its  gardens  and  fountains,  as  in 
the  time  of  the  Moorish  sovereigns.  I  proposed  the  change 
to  Dame  Antonia  and  her  family,  and  it  occasioned  vast 
surprise.  They  could  not  conceive  any  rational  induce- 
ment for  the  choice  of  an  apartment  so  forlorn,  remote,  and 
soHtary.  ...  I  was  not  to  be  diverted  from  my  humor, 
however,  and  my  will  was  law  with  these  good  people. 
So,  calling  in  the  assistance  of  a  carpenter,  and  the  ever 
officious  Mateo  Ximenes,  the  doors  and  windows  were  soon 
placed  in  a  state  of  tolerable  security,  and  the  sleeping- 
room  .  .  .  prepared  for  my  reception.  Mateo  kindly  vol- 
unteered as  a  body-guard  to  sleep  in  my  antechamber;  but 
I  did  not  think  it  worth  while  to  put  his  valor  to  the  proof. 

With  all  the  hardihood  I  had  assumed  and  all  the  pre- 
cautions I  had  taken,  I  must  confess  the  first  night  passed 
in  these  quarters  was  inexpressibly  dreary.  I  do  not 
think  it  was  so  much  the  apprehension  of  dangers  from 
without  that  affected  me,  as  the  character  of  the  place 
itself,  wjith  all  its  strange  associations:  the  deeds  of  vio- 
lence committed  there;  the  tragical  ends  of  many  of  those 
who  had  once  reigned  there  in  splendor.  .  .  . 

The  whole  family  escorted  me  to  my  chamber,  and  took 
leave  of  me  as  of  one  engaged  on  a  perilous  enterprise;  and 
when  I  heard  their  retreating  steps  die  away  along  the 
waste  antechambers  and  echoing  galleries;  and  turned  the 
key  of  my  door,  I  was  reminded  of  those  hobgoblin  stories, 
where  the  hero  is  left  to  accomplish  the  adventure  of  an 
enchanted  house. 


70  American  Literature 

In  the  course  of  a  few  evenings  a  thorough  change  took 
place  in  the  scene  and  its  associations.  The  moon,  which 
when  I  took  possession  of  my  new  apartments  was  invis- 
ible, gradually  gained  each  evening  upon  the  darkness  of 
the  night,  and  at  length  rolled  in  full  splendor  above  the 
towers,  pouring  a  flood  of  tempered  light  into  every  court 
and  hall.  The  garden  beneath  my  window,  before  wrapped 
in  gloom,  was  gently  lighted  up,  the  orange  and  citron 
trees  were  tipped  with  silver;  the  fountain  sparkled  in 
the  moonbeams,  and  even  the  blush  of  the  rose  was  faintly 
visible. 

I  now  felt  the  poetic  merit  of  the  Arabic  inscription  on 
the  walls:  *'How  beauteous  is  this  garden;  where  the 
flowers  of  the  earth  vie  with  the  stars  of  heaven.  What 
can  compare  with  the  vase  of  yon  alabaster  fountain  filled 
with  crystal  water?  nothing  but  the  moon  in  her  fulness, 
shining  in  the  midst  of  an  unclouded  sky !" 

On  such  heavenly  nights  I  would  sit  for  hours  at  my 
window  inhaling  the  sweetness  of  the  garden,  and  musing 
on  the  checkered  fortunes  of  those  whose  history  was  dimly 
shadowed  out  in  the  elegant  memorials  around.  Some- 
times, when  all  was  quiet,  and  the  clock  from  the  distant 
cathedral  of  Granada  struck  the  midnight  hour,  I  have 
sailed  out  on  another  tour  and  wandered  over  the  whole 
building;  but  how  different  from  my  first  tour !  .  .  . 

Who  can  do  justice  to  a  moonlight  night  in  such  a  climate 
and  such  a  place  ?  The  temperature  of  a  summer  midnight 
in  Andalusia  is  perfectly  ethereal.  We  seem  Hfted  up  into 
a  purer  atmosphere;  we  feel  a  serenity  of  soul,  a  buoyancy 
of  spirits,  an  elasticity  of  frame,  which  render  mere  exis- 
tence happiness.  But  when  moonlight  is  added  to  all  this, 
the  effect  is  like  enchantment.  Under  its  plastic  sway 
the  Alhambra  seems  to  regain  its  pristine  glories.  Every 
rent  and  chasm  of  time;  every  mouldering  tint  and  weather- 
stain  is  gone;  the  marble  resumes  its  original  whiteness; 
the  long  colonnades  brighten  in  the  moonbeams;  the  halls 
are  illuminated  with  a  softened  radiance, — we  tread  the 
enchanted  palace  of  an  Arabian  tale ! 

What  a  delight,  at  such  a  time,  to  ascend  to  the  littie 


The  Early  Writers  71 

airy  pavilion  of  the  queen's  toilet  .  .  .  which,  like  a  bird- 
cage, overhangs  the  valley  of  the  Darro,  and  gaze  from  its 
light  arcades  upon  the  moonUght  prospect !  To  the  right, 
the  swelling  mountains  of  the  Sierra  Nevada,  robbed  of 
their  ruggedness  and  softened  into  a  fairy  land,  with  their 
snowy  summits  gleaming  like  silver  clouds  against  the  deep 
blue  sky.  And  then  to  lean  over  the  parapet  of  the  Tocador 
and  gaze  down  upon  the  Granada  and  the  Albaycin  spread 
out  Hke  a  map  below;  all  buried  in  deep  repose;  the  white 
palaces  and  convents  sleeping  in  the  moonshine,  and  beyond 
all  these  the  vapory  Vega  fading  away  like  a  dreamland  in 
the  distance. 

Sometimes  the  faint  click  of  castanets  rises  from  the 
Alameda,  where  some  gay  Andalusians  are  dancing  away 
the  summer  night.  Sometimes  the  dubious  tones  of  a 
guitar  and  the  notes  of  an  amorous  voice,  tell  perchance 
the  whereabouts  of  some  moonstruck  lover  serenading 
his  lady's  window. 

Such  is  a  faint  picture  of  the  moonlight  nights  I  have 
passed  loitering  about  the  courts  and  halls  and  balconies 
of  this  most  suggestive  pile,  "feeding  my  fancy  with 
sugared  suppositions,"  and  enjoying  that  mixture  of 
reverie  and  sensation  which  steals  away  existence  in  a 
southern  climate;  so  that  it  has  been  almost  morning  be- 
fore I  have  retired  to  bed  and  been  lulled  to  sleep  by  the 
falling  waters  of  the  fountain  of  Lindaraxa. 

2.  James  Fenimore  Cooper  (i  789-1851)  is  often  called  the 
American  Scott.  He  gave  us  the  historical  novel  based  on 
American  history  just  as  Scott  gave  us  the  historical  novel  based 
on  English  history.  He  really  stumbled  into  the  profession  of 
literature.  One  day  as  he  finished  reading  a  cheap  English 
society  novel  he  exclaimed,  "  I  could  do  better  myself!"  He 
was  challenged  to  do  so,  and  the  result  was  his  first  book.  Pre- 
caution, a  story  of  English  life.  It  occurred  to  Cooper  that  if 
he  could  write  a  story  of  some  worth  describing  life  little  known 
to  him  he  might  write  tales  of  greater  merit  describing  life  well 
known  to  him;  and  so  the  next  year  gives  us  The  Spy.  By 
this  time  he  had  found  himself.  Through  the  following  years 
he  wrote  the  Leather  Stocking  Tales  and  the  Sea  Tales,  one  of 


72  American  Literature 

which,  The  Pilot,  was  the  first  salt-water  novel  ever  written 
and  is,  says  Professor  Brander  Matthews,  "to  this  day  one 
of  the  best."  It  is  hoped  the  following  extract  will  stimu- 
late the  student  to  a  complete  reading  of  one  of  Cooper's  tales. 

Hawkeye,  Chingachgook,  and  Uncas 

(From  The  Last  of  the  Mohicans,  chapter  III) 

On  that  day,  two  men  were  lingering  on  the  banks  of  a 
small  but  rapid  stream,  within  an  hour's  journey  to  the 
encampment  of  Webb,  like  those  who  awaited  the  appear- 
ance of  an  absent  person,  or  the  approach  of  some  expected 
event.  .  .  . 

While  one  of  these  loiterers  showed  the  red  skin  and 
wild  accoutrements  of  a  native  of  the  woods,  the  other 
exhibited,  through  the  mask  of  his  rude  and  nearly  savage 
equipments,  the  brighter,  though  sun-burnt  and  long-faded 
complexion  of  one  who  might  claim  descent  from  a  European 
parentage.  The  former  was  seated  on  the  end  of  a  mossy 
log,  in  a  posture  that  permitted  him  to  heighten  the  effect 
of  his  earnest  language,  by  the  calm  but  expressive  ges- 
tures of  an  Indian  engaged  in  debate.  ...  A  tomahawk 
and  scalping-knife,  of  EngHsh  manufacture,  were  in  his 
girdle;  while  a  short  military  rifle,  of  that  sort  with  which 
the  poHcy  of  the  whites  armed  their  savage  alhes,  lay  care- 
lessly across  his  bare  and  sinewy  knee.  The  expanded 
chest,  full-formed  limbs,  and  grave  countenance  of  this 
warrior,  would  denote  that  he  had  reached  the  vigor  of 
his  days,  though  no  symptoms  of  decay  appeared  to  have 
yet  weakened  his  manhood. 

The  frame  of  the  white  man,  judging  by  such  parts  as 
were  not  concealed  by  his  clothes,  was  Hke  that  of  one  who 
had  known  hardships  and  exertion  from  his  earliest  youth. 
.  .  .  He  wore  a  hunting  shirt  of  forest-green,  fringed  with 
faded  yellow,  and  a  summer  cap  of  skins  which  had  been 
shorn  of  their  fur.  He  also  bore  a  knife  in  a  girdle  of  wam- 
pum, like  that  which  confined  the  scanty  garments  of  the 
Indian,  but  no  tomahawk.  ...  A  pouch  and  horn  com- 
pleted his  personal  accoutrements  though  a  rifle  of  great 


The  Early  Writers  73 

length,  which  the  theory  of  the  more  ingenious  whites  had 
taught  them  was  the  most  dangerous  of  all  firearms,  leaned 
against  a  neighboring  sapling.  The  eye  of  the  hunter,  or 
scout,  whichever  he  might  be,  was  small,  quick,  keen,  and 
restless,  roving  while  he  spoke,  on  every  side  of  him,  as 
if  in  quest  of  game,  or  distrusting  the  sudden  approach  of 
some  lurking  enemy.  Notwithstanding  the  symptoms  of 
habitual  suspicion,  his  countenajice  was  not  only  without 
guile,  but  at  the  moment  at  which  he  is  introduced  it  was 
charged  with  an  expression  of  sturdy  honesty. 

"Even  your  traditions  make  the  case  in  my  favor, 
Chingachgook,''  he  said,  speaking  in  the  tongue  which 
was  known  to  all  the  natives  who  formerly  inhabited  the 
country  between  the  Hudson  and  the  Potomac.  .  .  . 
''Your  fathers  came  from  the  setting  sun,  crossed  the  big 
river,  fought  the  people  of  the  country,  and  took  the  land; 
and  mine  came  from  the  red  sky  of  the  morning,  over  the 
salt  lake,  and  did  their  work  much  after  the  fashion  that 
had  been  set  them  by  yours;  then  let  God  judge  the  mat- 
ter between  us,  and  friends  spare  their  words !" 

''My  fathers  fought  with  the  naked  red  men !"  returned 
the  Indian,  sternly,  in  the  same  language.  "Is  there  no 
difference,  Hawkeye,  between  the  stone-headed  arrow  of 
the  warrior,  and  the  leaden  bullet  with  which  you  kill?  " 

"There  is  reason  in  an  Indian,  though  nature  has  made 
him  with  a  red  skin!"  said  the  white  man,  shaking  his 
head  like  one  on  whom  such  an  appeal  to  his  justice  was 
not  thrown  away.  .  .  .  "I  am  no  scholar,  and  I  care  not 
who  knows  it;  but,  judging  from  what  I  have  seen,  at  deer 
chases  and  squirrel  hunts,  of  the  sparks  below,  I  should 
think  a  rifle  in  the  hands  of  their  grandfathers  was  not  so 
dangerous  as  a  hickory  bow  and  a  good  flint-head  might 
be,  if  drawn  with  Indian  judgment,  and  sent  by  an  Indian 
eye." 

"You  have  the  story  told  by  your  fathers,"  returned  the 
other,  coldly,  waving  his  hand.  "What  say  your  old  men? 
do  they  tell  the  young  warriors  that  the  pale  faces  met  the 
red  men,  painted  for  war  and  armed  with  the  stone  hatchet 
and  wooden  gun?" 


74  American  Literature 

^'I  am  not  a  prejudiced  man,  nor  one  who  vaunts  him- 
self on  his  natural  privileges,  though  the  worst  enemy  I 
have  on  earth,  and  he  is  an  Iroquois,  daren't  deny  that  I 
am  genuine  white,"  the  scout  repHed,  surveying,  with 
secret  satisfaction,  the  faded  color  of  his  bony  and  sinewy 
hand,  *'and  I  am  willing  to  own  that  my  people  have  many 
ways,  of  which,  as  an  honest  man,  I  can't  approve.  It  is 
one  of  their  customs  to  write  in  books  what  they  have  done 
and  seen,  instead  of  telling  them  in  their  villages,  where  the 
lie  can  be  given  to  the  face  of  a  cowardly  boaster,  and 
the  brave  soldier  can  call  on  his  comrades  to  witness  for  the 
truth  of  his  words.  In  consequence  of  this  bad  fashion,  a 
man,  who  is  too  conscientious  to  misspend  his  days  among 
the  women,  in  learning  the  names  of  black  marks,  may 
never  hear  of  the  deeds  of  his  fathers,  nor  feel  a  pride 
in  striving  to  outdo  them.  For  myself,  I  conclude  the 
Bumppos  could  shoot,  for  I  have  a  natural  turn  with  a 
rifle,  which  must  have  been  handed  down  from  generation 
to  generation,  as,  our  holy  commandments  tell  us,  all  good 
and  evil  gifts  are  bestowed;  though  I  should  be  loath  to 
answer  for  other  people  in  such  a  matter.  But  every 
story  has  its  two  sides;  so  I  ask  you,  Chingachgook,  what 
passed,  according  to  the  traditions  of  the  red  men,  when 
our  fathers  first  met?" 

A  silence  of  a  minute  succeeded,  during  which  the  Indian 
sat  mute;  then,  full  of  the  dignity  of  his  office,  he  com- 
menced his  brief  tale,  with  a  solemnity  that  served  to 
heighten  its  appearance  of  truth. 

''Listen,  Hawkeye,  and  your  ear  shall  drink  no  lie. 
'Tis  what  my  fathers  have  said,  and  what  the  Mohicans 
have  done."  He  hesitated  a  single  instant,  and  bending 
a  cautious  glance  toward  his  companion,  he  continued,  in 
a  manner  that  was  divided  between  interrogation  and 
assertion.  ''Does  not  this  stream  at  our  feet  run  toward 
the  summer,  until  its  waters  grow  salt,  and  the  current 
flows  upward?" 

"It  can't  be  denied  that  your  traditions  tell  you  true 
in  both  these  matters,"  said  the  white  man;  "for  I  have 
been   there,   and  have  seen   them;    though,   why  water, 


The  Early  Writers  75 

which  is  so  sweet  in  the  shade,  should  become  bitter  in 
the  sun,  is  an  alteration  for  which  I  have  never  been  able 
to  account.'' 

''And  the  current!"  demanded  the  Indian,  who  ex- 
pected his  reply  with  that  sort  of  interest  that  a  man  feels 
in  the  confirmation  of  testimony,  at  which  he  marvels 
even  while  he  respects  it;  "the  fathers  of  Chingachgook 
have  not  lied!" 

"The  holy  Bible  is  not  more  true,  and  that  is  the  truest 
thing  in  nature.  They  call  this  upstream  current  the  tide, 
which  is  a  thing  soon  explained,  and  clear  enough.  Six 
hours  the  waters  run  in,  and  six  hours  they  run  out,  and 
the  reason  is  this:  when  there  is  higher  water  in  the  sea 
than  in  the  river,  they  run  in  until  the  river  gets  to  be 
highest,  and  then  it  runs  out  again." 

"The  waters  in  the  woods,  and  on  the  great  lakes,  run 
^downward  until  they  lie  like  my  hand,"  said  the  Indian, 
stretching  the  Hmb  horizontally  before  him,  "  and  then  they' 
run  no  more." 

"No  honest  man  will  deny  it,"  said  the  scout,  a  little 
nettled  at  the  implied  distrust  of  his  explanation  of  the 
mystery  of  the  tides;  "and  I  grant  that  it  is  true  on  the 
small  scale,  and  where  the  land  is  level.  But  everything 
depends  on  what  scale  you  look  at  things.  Now,  on  the 
small  scale,  the  'arth  is  level;  but  on  the  large  scale  it  is 
round.  In  this  manner,  pools  and  ponds,  and  even  the 
great  freshwater  lakes,  may  be  stagnant,  as  you  and  I 
both  know  they  are,  having  seen  them;  but  when  you 
come  to  spread  water  over  a  great  tract,  like  the  sea,  where 
the  earth  is  round,  how  in  reason  can  the  water  be  quiet? 
You  might  as  well  expect  the  river  to  lie  still  on  the  brink 
of  those  black  rocks  a  mile  above  us,  though  your  own  ears 
tell  you  that  it  is  tumbling  over  them  at  this  very  mo- 
ment." 

If  unsatisfied  by  the  philosophy  of  his  companion,  the 
Indian  was  far  too  dignified  to  betray  his  unbelief.  He 
listened  hke  one  who  was  convinced,  and  resumed  his  nar- 
rative in  his  former  solemn  manner. 

"We  came  from  the  place  where  the  sun  is  hid  at  night, 


76  American  Literature 

over  great  plains  where  the  buffaloes  live,  until  we  reached 
the  big  river.  There  we  fought  the  AlUgewi,  till  the 
ground  was  red  with  their  blood.  From  the  banks  of 
the  big  river  to  the  shores  of  the  salt  lake,  there  was  none 
to  meet  us.  The  Maquas  followed  at  a  distance.  We 
said  the  country  should  be  ours  from  the  place  where  the 
waters  run  up  no  longer  on  this  stream,  to  a  river  twenty 
suns'  journey  toward  the  summer.  The  land  we  had 
taken  like  warriors  we  kept  like  men.  We  drove  the 
Maquas  into  the  woods  with  the  bears.  They  only  tasted 
salt  at  the  licks;  they  drew  no  fish  from  the  great  lake; 
we  threw  them  the  bones." 

"All  this  I  have  heard  arid  believe,"  said  the  white  man, 
observing  that  the  Indian  paused;  "but  it  was  long  before 
the  Enghsh  came  into  the  country." 

"A  pine  grew  then  where  this  chestnut  now  stands. 
The  first  pale  faces  who  came  among  us  spoke  no  English. 
They  came  in  a  large  canoe,  when  my  fathers  had  buried 
the  tomahawk  with  the  red  men  around  them.  Then, 
Hawkeye,"  he  continued,  betraying  his  deep  emotion,  only 
by  permitting  his  voice  to  fall  to  those  low,  guttural  tones, 
which  render  his  language,  as  spoken  at  times,  so  very 
musical;  "then,  Hawkeye,  we  were  one  people,  and  we 
were  happy.  The  salt  lake  gave  us  its  fish,  the  wood  its 
deer,  and  the  air  its  birds.  We  took  wives  who  bore  us 
children;  we  worshiped  the  Great  Spirit;  and  we  kept  the 
Maquas  beyond  the  sound  of  our  songs  of  triumph!" 

"Know  you  anything  of  your  own  family  at  that  time?" 
demanded  the  white.  "But  you  are  a  just  man,  for  an 
Indian;  and  as  I  suppose  you  hold  their  gifts,  your  fathers 
must  have  been  brave  warriors,  and  wise  men  at  the  coun- 
cil-fire." 

"My  tribe  is  the  grandfather  of  nations,  but  I  am  an 
unmixed  man.  The  blood  of  chiefs  is  in  my  veins,  where 
it  must  stay  forever.  The  Dutch  landed,  and  gave  my 
people  the  fire-water;  they  drank  until  the  heavens  and  the 
earth  seemed  to  meet,  and  they  foolishly  thought  they  had 
found  the  Great  Spirit.  Then  they  parted  with  their  land. 
Foot  by  foot,  they  were  driven  back  from  the  shores,  until 


The  Early  Writers  77 

I,  that  am  a  chief  and  a  Sagamore,  have  never  seen  the  sun 
shine  but  through  the  trees,  and  have  never  visited  the 
graves  of  my  fathers." 

"Graves  bring  solemn  feelings  over  the  mind,"  returned 
the  scout,  a  good  deal  touched  at  the  calm  suffering  of  his 
companion;  "and  they  often  aid  a  man  in  his  good  inten- 
tions; though,  for  myself  I  expect  to  leave  my  own  bones 
unburied,  to  bleach  in  the  woods,  or  to  be  torn  asunder  by 
the  wolves.  But  where  are  to  be  found  those  of  your  race 
who  came  to  their  kin  in  the  Delaware  country,  so  many 
summers  since?" 

"Where  are  the  blossoms  of  those  summers ! — fallen,  one 
by  one;  so  all  of  my  family  departed,  each  in  his  turn,  to 
the  land  of  spirits.  I  am  on  the  hilltop  and  must  go  down 
into  the  valley;  and  when  Uncas  follows  in  my  footsteps, 
there  will  no  longer  be  any  of  the  blood  of  the  Sagamores, 
for  my  boy  is  the  last  of  the  Mohicans." 

"Uncas  is  here,"  said  another  voice,  in  the  same  soft 
guttural  tones,  near  his  elbow;  "who  speaks  to  Uncas?" 

The  white  man  loosened  his  knife  in  his  leathern  sheath, 
und  made  an  involuntary  movement  of  the  hand  toward 
his  rifle,  at  this  sudden  interruption;  but  the  Indian  sat 
composed,  and  without  turning  his  head  at  the  unexpected 
sounds. 

At  the  next  instant,  a  youthful  warrior  passed  between 
them,  with  a  noiseless  step,  and  seated  himself  on  the  bank 
of  the  rapid  stream.  No  exclamation  of  surprise  escaped 
the  father,  nor  was  any  question  asked,  or  reply  given,  for 
several  jninutes;  each  appearing  to  await  the  moment  when 
he  might  speak,  without  betraying  womanish  curiosity  or 
childish  impatience.  The  white  man  seemed  to  take  counsel 
from  their  customs,  and,  relinquishing  his  grasp  of  the  rifle, 
he  also  remained  silent  and  reserved.  At  length  Chingach- 
gook  turned  his  eyes  slowly  toward  his  son,  and  demanded: 

"Do  the  Maquas  dare  to  leave  the  print  of  their  mocca- 
sins in  these  woods?" 

"I  have  been  on  their  trail,"  replied  the  young  Indian, 
"and  know  that  they  number  as  many  as  the  fingers  of  my 
two  hands;  but  they  lie  hid  like  cowards." 


78  American  Literature 

"The  thieves  are  out-lying  for  scalps  and  plunder !"  said 
the  white  man,  whom  we  shaU  call  Hawkeye  after  the  man- 
ner of  his  companions.  "That  bushy  Frenchman,  Mont- 
calm, will  send  his  spies  into  the  very  camp,  but  he  will 
know  what  road  we  travel !" 

"'Tis  enough,'^  returned  the  father,  glancing  his  eye 
towards  the  setting  sun;  "they  shall  be  driven  like  deer 
from  their  bushes.  Hawkeye,  let  us  eat  to-night,  and  show 
the  Maquas  that  we  are  men  to-morrow." 

"I  am  as  ready  to  do  the  one  as  the  other;  but  to  fight 
the  Iroquois  'tis  necessary  to  find  the  skulkers;  and  to  eat, 
'tis  necessary  to  get  the  game — talk  of  the  devil  and  he 
will  come;  there  is  a  pair  of  the  biggest  antlers  I  have  seen 
this  season,  moving  the  bushes  below  the  hill!  Now, 
Uncas,"  he  continued,  in  a  half  whisper,  and  laughing  with 
a  kind  of  inward  sound,  like  one  who  had  learned  to  be 
watchful,  "I  will  bet  my  charger  three  times  full  of  powder, 
against  a  foot  of  wampum,  that  I  take  him  atwixt  the  eyes, 
and  nearer  to  the  right  than  to  the  left." 

"It  cannot  be!"  said  the  young  Indian,  springing  to  his 
feet  with  youthful  eagerness;  "all  but  the  tips  of  his  horns 
are  hid!" 

"He's  a  boy!"  said  the  white  man,  shaking  his  head 
while  he  spoke  and  addressing  the  father.  "Does  he  think 
when  a  hunter  sees  a  part  of  the  creatur',  he  can't  tell 
where  the  rest  of  him  should  be?  " 

Adjusting  his  rifle,  he  was  about  to  make  an  exhibition 
of  that  skill  on  which  he  so  much  valued  himself,  when  the 
warrior  struck  up  the  piece  with  his  hand,  saying, — 

"Hawkeye !  will  you  fight  the  Maquas?" 

"These  Indians  know  the  nature  of  the  woods,  as  it 
might  be  by  instinct!"  returned  the  scout,  dropping  his 
rifle,  and  turning  away  Uke  a  man  who  was  convinced  of 
his  error.  "I  must  leave  the  buck  to  your  arrow,  Uncas, 
or  we  may  kill  a  deer  for  them  thieves,  the  Iroquois,  to 
eat." 

The  instant  the  father  seconded  this  intimation  by  an 
expressive  gesture  of  the  hand,  Uncas  threw  himself  on 
the  ground,  and  approached  the  animal  with  wary  move- 


The  Early  Writers  79 

ments.  When  within  a  few  yards  of  the  cover,  he  fitted  an 
arrow  to  his  bow  with  the  utmost  care,  while  the  antlers 
moved,  as  if  their  owner  snufifed  an  enemy  in  the  tainted 
air.  In  another  moment  the  twang  of  the  cord  was  heard, 
a  white  streak  was  seen  glancing  into  the  bushes,  and  the 
wounded  buck  plunged  from  the  cover,  to  the  very  feet  of 
his  hidden  enemy.  Avoiding  the  horns  of  the  infuriated 
animal,  Uncas  darted  to  his  side,  and  passed  his  knife 
across  the  throat,  when  bounding  to  the  edge  of  the  river 
it  fell,  dyeing  the  waters  with  its  blood. 

^*  'Twas  done  with  Indian  skill,"  said  the  scout  laughing 
inwardly,  but  with  vast  satisfaction;  "and  'twas  a  pretty 
sight  to  behold !  Though  an  arrow  is  a  near  shot,  and 
needs  a  knife  to  finish  the  work." 

"Hugh!"  ejaculated  his  companion,  turning  quickly, 
like  a  hound  who  scented  game. 

"By  the  Lord,  there  is  a  drove  of  them !"  exclaimed  the 
scout,  whose  eyes  began  to  gKsten  with  the  ardor  of  his 
usual  occupation;  "if  they  come  within  range  of  a  bullet  I 
will  drop  one,  though  the  whole  Six  Nations  should  be 
lurking  within  sound  !  What  do  you  hear,  Chingachgook  ? 
for  to  my  ears  the  woods  are  dumb." 

"There  is  but  one  deer,  and  he  is  dead,"  said  the  Indian, 
bending  his  body  till  his  ear  nearly  touched  the  earth.  "I 
hear  the  sounds  of  feet !" 

"Perhaps  the  wolves  have  driven  the  buck  to  shelter, 
and  are  following  on  his  trail." 

"No.  The  horses  of  white  men  are  coming!"  returned 
the  other,  raising  himself  with  dignity,  and  resuming  his 
seat  on  the  log  with  his  former  composure.  "Hawkeye, 
they  are  your  brothers;  speak  to  them." 

"That  will  I,  and  in  English  that  the  king  needn't  be 
ashamed  to  answer,"  returned  the  hunter,  speaking  in  the 
language  of  which  he  boasted;  "but  I  see  nothing,  nor  do 
I  hear  the  sounds  of  man  or  beast;  'tis  strange  that  an  In- 
dian should  understand  white  sounds  better  than  a  man  who, 
his  very  enemies  will  own,  has  no  cross  in  his  blood,  although 
he  may  have  lived  with  the  red  skins  long  enough  to  be  sus- 
pected !   Ha  !  there  goes  something  Kke  the  cracking  of  a  dry 


80  American  Literature 

stick,  too — now  I  hear  the  bushes  move — yes,  yes,  there 
is  a  trampling  that  I  mistook  for  the  falls — and — but  here 
they  come  themselves;  God  keep  them  from  the  Iroquois !" 
(See  Dramatization,  by  S.  E.  Simons  and  C.  T.  Orr,  for 
dramatization  of  scenes  from  The  Last  of  the  Mohicans) 

3.  Daniel  Webster  (i 782-1852),  a  native  of  New  Hamp- 
shire and  a  graduate  of  Dartmouth,  was  probably  the  greatest 
of  American  orators.  While  in  Congress,  in  1830-1832,  he 
defended  the  Union  against  State  sovereignty.  The  closing 
words  of  his  speech  in  Reply  to  Hayne  sum  up  his  political 
creed,  **  Liberty  and  Union,  now  and  forever,  one  and  insepara- 
ble." Because  Webster  compromised  in  the  slavery  issue  be- 
tween the  North  and  South  in  1850,  Whittier  wrote  Ichabod,  a 
scathing  rebuke  to  him.  But  after  many  years  he  did  some- 
what tardy  justice  to  Webster's  memory  by  writing  The  Lost 
Occasion.  Webster  was  twice  returned  to  the  United  States 
Senate  and  was  Secretary  of  State  1841-1843.  His  two  Bunker 
Hill  speeches  are  among  his  best  orations. 

The  Federal  Union 
(From  Webster's  Reply  to  Hayne) 

I  profess,  Sir,  in  my  career  hitherto,  to  have  kept 
steadily  in  view  the  prosperity,  and  honor  of  the  whole 
country,  and  the  preservation  of  our  Federal  Union.  .  .  . 

I  have  not  allowed  myself.  Sir,  to  look  beyond  the  Union, 
to  see  what  might  He  hidden  in  the  dark  recess  behind.  I 
have  not  coolly  weighed  the  chances  of  preserving  liberty 
when  the  bonds  that  unite  us  together  shall  be  broken 
asunder.  I  have  not  accustomed  myself  to  hang  over  the 
precipice  of  disunion,  to  see  whether,  with  my  short  sight, 
I  can  fathom  the  depth  of  the  abyss  below;  nor  could  1 
regard  him  as  a  safe  counsellor  in  the  affairs  of  this  govern- 
ment, whose  thoughts  should  be  mainly  bent  on  consider- 
ing, not  how  the  Union  may  best  be  preserved,  but  how 
tolerable  might  be  the  condition  of  the  people  when  it  shall 
be  broken  up  and  destroyed.  While  the  Union  lasts,  we 
have  high,  exciting,  gratifying  prospects  spread  out  before 
us,  for  us  and  our  children.    Beyond  that  I  seek  not  to 


The  Early  Writers  81 

penetrate  the  veil.  God  grant  that  in  my  day,  at  least, 
the  curtain  may  not  rise !  God  grant  that  on  my  vision 
never  may  be  opened  what  lies  behind!  When  my  eyes 
shall  be  turned  to  behold  for  the  last  time  the  sun  in  heaven, 
may  I  not  see  him  shining  on  the  broken  and  dishonored 
fragments  of  a  once  glorious  Union;  on  states  dissevered, 
discordant,  belligerent;  on  a  land  rent  with  civil  feuds,  or 
drenched,  it  may  be,  in  fraternal  blood!  Let  their  last 
feeble  and  lingering  glance  rather  behold  the  gorgeous  en- 
sign of  the  republic,  now  known  and  honored  throughout 
the  earth,  still  full  high  advanced,  its  arms  and  trophies 
streaming  in  their  original  lustre,  not  a  stripe  erased  or 
polluted,  nor  a  single  star  obscured,  bearing  for  its  motto 
no  such  miserable  interrogatory  as  "What  is  all  this 
worth?"  nor  those  other  words  of  delusion  and  folly, 
"Liberty  first  and  Union  afterward";  but  everywhere 
spread  all  over  in  characters  of  living  light,  blazing  on  all 
its  ample  folds,  as  they  float  over  the  sea  and  over  the  land, 
and  in  every  wind  under  the  whole  heavens,  that  other  sen- 
timent, dear  to  every  true  American  heart,  Liberty  and 
Union,  now  and  forever,  one  and  inseparable ! 


The  Character  of  Washington 
(From  the  Second  Bunker  Hill  Oration,  delivered  June  17,  1843) 

America  has  furnished  to  the  world  the  character  of 
Washington.  And  if  our  American  institutions  had  done 
nothing  else,  that  alone  would  have  entitled  them  to  the 
respect  of  mankind.  Washington!  "First  in  war,  first 
in  peace,  and  first  in  the  hearts  of  his  countrymen ! " 
Washington  is  all  our  own!  The  enthusiastic  veneration 
and  regard  in  which  the  people  of  the  United  States  hold 
him,  prove  them  to  be  worthy  of  such  a  countryman; 
while  his  reputation  abroad  reflects  the  highest  honor 
on  his  country.  I  would  cheerfully  put  the  question  to-day 
to  the  intelligence  of  Europe  and  the  world.  What  char- 
acter of  the  century,  upon  the  whole,  stands  out  in  the  relief 
of  history,  most  pure,  most  respectable,  most  sublime? 


82  American  Literature 

and  I  doubt  not,  that,  by  a  suffrage  approaching  to  unanim- 
ity, the  answer  would  be,  Washington ! 

The  structure  now  standing  before  us,  by  its  uprightness, 
its  solidity,  its  durability,  is  no  unfit  emblem  of  his  char- 
acter. His  public  virtues  and  public  principles  were  as 
firm  as  the  earth  on  which  it  stands;  his  personal  motives, 
as  pure  as  the  serene  heaven  in  which  its  summit  is  lost. 
But,  indeed,  though  a  fit,  it  is  an  inadequate  emblem. 
Towering  high  above  the  column  which  our  hands  have 
builded,  beheld,  not  by  the  inhabitants  of  a  single  city  or 
a  single  state,  but  by  all  the  families  of  man,  ascends  the 
colossal  grandeur  of  the  character  and  life  of  Washington. 
In  all  the  constituents  of  the  one,  in  all  the  acts  of  the 
other,  in  all  its  titles  to  immortal  love,  admiration,  and 
renown,  it  is  an  American  production.  It  is  the  embod- 
iment and  vindication  of  our  Transatlantic  liberty.  Born 
upon  our  soil,  of  parents  also  born  upon  it;  never  for  a 
moment  having  had  sight  of  the  Old  World;  instructed, 
according  to  the  modes  of  his  time,  only  in  the  spare,  plain, 
but  wholesome  elementary  knowledge  which  our  institu- 
tions provide  for  the  children  of  the  people;  growing  up 
beneath  and  penetrated  by  the  genuine  influences  of 
American  society;  living  from  infancy  to  manhood  and 
age  amidst  our  expanding  but  not  luxurious  civilization; 
partaking  in  our  great  destiny  of  labor,  our  long  contest 
with  unreclaimed  nature  and  uncivilized  man,  our  agony 
of  glory,  the  war  of  Independence,  our  great  victory  of 
peace,  the  formation  of  the  Union,  and  the  establishment 
of  the  Constitution,^ — he  is  all,  all  our  own !  Washington 
is  ours.  .  .  . 

I  claim  him  for  America.  In  all  the  perils,  in  every 
darkened  moment  of  the  state,  in  the  midst  of  the  reproaches 
of  enemies  and  the  misgivings  of  friends,  I  turn  to  that 
transcendent  name  for  courage  and  for  consolation.  To 
him  who  denies  or  doubts  whether  our  fervid  liberty  can 
be  combined  with  law,  with  order,  with  the  security  of 
property,  with  the  pursuits  and  advancement  of  happi- 
ness; to  him  who  denies  that  our  forms  of  government  are 
capable  of  producing  exaltation  of  soul  and  the  passion  of 


The  Early  Writers  83 

true  glory;  to  him  who  denies  that  we  have  contributed 
anything  to  the  stock  of  great  lessons  and  great  examples, 
— to  all  these  I  reply  by  pointing  to  Washington ! 

(Compare  with  Jefferson's  characterization,  supra,  p.  39.) 

4.  Edgar  Allan  Poe  (i  809-1 849),  poet  and  short-story 
writer,  the  greatest  of  our  Southern  men  of  letters,  has  the  widest 
international  fame  of  any  American  author.  Tennyson  con- 
sidered him  the  best  American  poet.  He  was  the  inventor  of 
the  detective  story  and,  with  the  sole  exception  of  Hawthorne, 
ranks  as  the  greatest  of  our  short-story  writers.  In  his  treat- 
ment of  the  weird  he  is  excelled  only  by  Coleridge. 


The  Masque  of  the  Red  Death 

The  "  Red  Death  "  had  long  devastated  the  country.  No 
pestilence  had  ever  been  so  fatal,  or  so  hideous.  Blood 
was  its  avatar  and  its  seal — the  redness  and  the  horror 
of  blood.  There  were  sharp  pains,  and  sudden  dizziness, 
and  then  profuse  bleeding  at  the  pores,  with  dissolution. 
The  scarlet  stains  upon  the  body,  and  especially  upon  the 
face,  of  the  victim  were  the  pest  ban  which  shut  him  out 
from  the  aid  and  from  the  sympathy  of  his  fellow-men. 
And  the  whole  seizure,  progress,  and  termination  of  the 
disease  were  the  incidents  of  half  an  hour. 

But  the  Prince  Prospero  was  happy  and  dauntless  and 
sagacious.  When  his  dominions  were  half  depopulated,  he 
summoned  to  his  presence  a  thousand  hale  and  light- 
hearted '  friends  from  among  the  knights  and  dames  of  his 
court,  and  with  these  retired  to  the  deep  seclusion  of  one 
of  his  castellated  abbeys.  This  was  an  extensive  and 
magnificent  structure,  the  creation  of  the  Prince's  own 
eccentric  yet  august  taste.  A  strong  and  lofty  wall  girdled 
it  in.  This  wall  had  gates  of  iron.  The  courtiers,  having 
entered,  brought  furnaces  and  massy  hammers,  and  welded 
the  bolts.  They  resolved  to  leave  means  neither  of  in- 
gress or  egress  to  the  sudden  impulses  of  despair  or  of 
frenzy  from  within.  The  abbey  was  amply  provisioned. 
With  such  precautions  the  courtiers  might  bid  defiance 


84  American  Literature 

to  contagion.  The  external  world  could  take  care  of  itself. 
In  the  meantime  it  was  folly  to  grieve,  or  to  think.  The 
Prince  had  provided  all  the  appHances  of  pleasure.  There 
were  buffoons,  there  were  impro  visa  tori,  there  were  ballet- 
dancers,  there  were  musicians,  there  was  Beauty,  there  was 
wine.  All  these  and  security  were  within.  Without  was 
the ''Red  Death." 

It  was  toward  the  close  of  the  fifth  or  sixth  month  of  his 
seclusion,  and  while  the  pestilence  raged  most  furiously 
abroad  that  the  Prince  Prospero  entertained  his  thou- 
sand friends  at  a  masked  ball  of  the  most  unusual  magnifi- 
cence. 

It  was  a  voluptuous  scene,  that  masquerade.  But  first 
let  me  tell  of  the  rooms  in  which  it  was  held.  There  were 
seven — an  imperial  suite.  In  many  palaces,  however, 
such  suites  form  a  long  and  straight  vista,  while  the  fold- 
ing-doors slide  back  nearly  to  the  walls  on  either  hand,  so 
that  the  view  of  the  whole  extent  is  scarcely  impeded. 
Here  the  case  was  very  different,  as  might  have  been  ex- 
pected from  the  Prince's  love  of  the  bizarre.  The  apart- 
ments were  so  irregularly  disposed  that  the  vision  embraced 
but  little  more  than  one  at  a  time.  There  was  a  sharp  turn 
at  every  twenty  or  thirty  yards,  and  at  each  turn  a  novel 
effect.  To  the  right  and  left,  in  the  middle  of  each  wall, 
a  tall  and  narrow  Gothic  window  looked  out  upon  a  closed 
corridor  which  pursued  the  windings  of  the  suite.  These 
windows  were  of  stained  glass,  whose  color  varied  in  accor- 
dance with  the  prevailing  hue  of  the  decorations  of  the 
chamber  into  which  it  opened.  That  at  the  eastern  ex- 
tremity was  hung,  for  example,  in  blue — and  vividly  blue 
were  its  windows.  The  second  chamber  was  purple  in  its 
ornaments  and  tapestries,  and  here  the  panes  were  purple. 
The  third  was  green  throughout,  and  so  were  the  case- 
ments. The  fourth  was  furnished  and  lighted  with  orange, 
the  fifth  with  white,  the  sixth  with  violet.  The  seventh 
apartment  was  closeb''  shrouded  in  black  velvet  tapestries 
that  hung  all  over  the  ceiling  and  down  the  walls,  falling 
in  heavy  folds  upon  a  carpet  of  the  same  material  and  hue. 
But,  in  this  chamber  only,  the  color  of  the  windows  failed 


The  Early  Writers  85 

to  correspond  with  the  decorations.  The  panes  here  were 
scarlet — a  deep  blood-color.  Now  in  no  one  of  the  seven 
apartments  was  there  any  lamp  or  candelabrum,  amid  the 
profusion  of  golden  ornaments  that  lay  scattered  to  and 
fro  or  depended  from  the  roof.  There  was  no  light  of  any 
kind  emanating  from  lamp  or  candle  within  the  suite  of 
chambers.  But  in  the  corridors  that  followed  the  suite 
there  stood,  opposite  to  each  window,  a  heavy  tripod,  bear- 
ing a  brazier  of  fire,  that  projected  its  rays  through  the 
tinted  glass  and  so  glaringly  illumined  the  room.  And 
thus  were  produced  a  multitude  of  gaudy  and  fantastic 
appearances.  But  in  the  western  or  black  chamber  the 
effect  of  the  firelight  that  streamed  upon  the  dark  hang- 
ings through  the  blood-tinted  panes  was  ghastly  in  the 
extreme,  and  produced  so  wild  a  look  upon  the  counte- 
nances of  those  who  entered  that  there  were  few  of  the 
company  bold  enough  to  set  foot  within  its  precincts  at  all. 
It  was  in  this  apartment,  also,  that  there  stood  against 
the  western  wall  a  gigantic  clock  of  ebony.  Its  pendulum 
swung  to  and  fro  with  a  dull,  heavy,  monotonous  clang; 
and  when  the  minute-hand  made  the  circuit  of  the  face, 
and  the  hour  was  to  be  stricken,  there  came  from  the 
brazen  lungs  of  the  clock  a  sound  which  was  clear  and  loud 
and  deep  and  exceedingly  musical,  but  of  so  peculiar  a  note 
and  emphasis  that,  at  each  lapse  of  an  hour,  the  musicians 
of  the  orchestra  were  constrained  to  pause,  momentarily, 
in  their  performance,  to  harken  to  the  sound;  and  thus  the 
waltzers  perforce  ceased  their  evolutions;  and  there  was 
a  brief  disconcert  of  the  whole  gay  company;  and,  while 
the  chimes  of  the  clock  yet  rang  it  was  observed  that  the 
giddiest  grew  pale  and  the  more  aged  and  sedate  passed 
their  hands  over  their  brows  as  if  in  confused  revery  or 
meditation.  But  when  the  echoes  had  fully  ceased,  a  light 
laughter  at  once  pervaded  the  assembly;  the  musicians 
looked  at  each  other  and  smiled  as  if  at  their  own  nervous- 
ness and  folly,  and  made  whispering  vows,  each  to  the  other, 
that  the  next  chiming  of  the  clock  should  produce  in  them 
no  similar  emotion;  and  then,  after  the  lapse  of  sixty  min- 
utes (which  embrace  three  thousand  and  six  hundred  sec- 


86  American  Literature 

onds  of  the  Time  that  flies)  there  came  yet  another  chiming 
of  the  clock,  and  then  were  the  same  disconcert  and  tremu- 
lousness  and  meditation  as  before. 

But,  in  spite  of  these  things,  it  was  a  gay  and  mag- 
nificent revel.  The  tastes  of  the  Prince  were  peculiar. 
He  had  a  fine  eye  for  colors  and  effects.  He  disregarded  the 
decora  of  mere  fashion.  His  plans  were  bold  and  fiery, 
and  his  conceptions  glowed  with  barbaric  lustre.  There 
are  some  who  would  have  thought  him  mad.  His  follow- 
ers felt  that  he  was  not.  It  was  necessary  to  hear  and  see 
and  touch  him  to  be  sure  that  he  was  not. 

He  had  directed,  in  great  part,  the  movable  embellish- 
ments of  the  seven  chambers,  upon  occasion  of  this  great 
fete;  and  it  was  his  own  guiding  taste  which  had  given 
character  to  the  masqueraders.  Be  sure  they  were  gro- 
tesque. There  were  much  glare  and  glitter  and  piquancy 
and  phantasm — much  of  what  has  been  since  seen  in 
Hernani.  There  were  arabesque  figures  with  unsuited 
limbs  and  appointments.  There  were  delirious  fancies  such 
as  the  madman  fashions.  There  was  much  of  the  beau- 
tiful, much  of  the  wanton,  much  of  the  bizarre,  something 
of  the  terrible,  and  not  a  little  of  that  which  might  have 
excited  disgust.  To  and  fro  in  the  seven  chambers  there 
stalked,  in  fact,  a  multitude  of  dreams.  And  these — the 
dreams — writhed  in  and  about,  taking  hue  from  the  rooms, 
and  causing  the  wild  music  of  the  orchestra  to  seem  as  the 
echo  of  their  steps.  And,  anon,  there  strikes  the  ebony 
clock  which  stands  in  the  hall  of  velvet.  And  then,  for 
a  moment,  all  is  still,  and  all  is  silent  save  the  voice  of 
the  clock.  The  dreams  are  stiff -frozen  as  they  stand. 
But  the  echoes  of  the  chime  die  away — they  have  endured 
but  an  instant — and  a  light,  half-subdued  laughter  floats 
after  them  as  they  depart.  And  now  again  the  music 
swells,  and  the  dreams  live,  and  writhe  to  and  fro  more 
merrily  than  ever,  taking  hue  from  the  many  tinted  win- 
dows through  which  stream  the  rays  from  the  tripods. 
But  to  the  chamber  which  lies  most  westwardly  of  the 
seven,  there  are  now  none  of  the  maskers  who  venture; 
for  the  night  is  waning  away,  and  there  flows  a  ruddier 


The  Early  Writers  87 

light  through  the  blood-colored  panes;  and  the  blackness 
of  the  sable  drapery  appalls;  and  to  him  whose  foot  falls 
upon  the  sable  carpet,  there  comes  from  the  near  clock  of 
ebony  a  muffled  peal  more  solemnly  emphatic  than  any 
which  reaches  their  ears  who  indulge  in  the  more  remote 
gayeties  of  the  other  apartments. 

But  these  other  apartments  were  densely  crowded,  and 
in  them  beat  feverishly  the  heart  of  Ufe.  And  the  revel 
went  whirlingly  on,  until  at  length  there  commenced  the 
sounding  of  midnight  upon  the  clock.  And  then  the  music 
ceased,  as  I  have  told;  and  the  evolutions  of  the  waltzers 
were  quieted;  and  there  was  an  imeasy  cessation  of  all 
things  as  before.  But  now  there  were  twelve  strokes  to 
be  sounded  by  the  bell  of  the  clock;  and  thus  it  hap- 
pened, perhaps,  that  more  of  thought  crept,  with  more  of 
time,  into  the  meditations  of  the  thoughtful  among  those 
who  revelled.  And  thus,  too,  it  happened,  perhaps,  that 
before  the  last  echoes  of  the  last  chime  h^d  utterly  sunk 
into  silence,  there  were  many  individuals  in  the  crowd  who 
had  found  leisure  to  become  aware  of  the  presence  of  a 
masked  figure  which  had  arrested  the  attention  of  no  single 
individual  before.  And  the  rumor  of  this  new  presence 
having  spread  itself  whisperingly  around,  there  arose  at 
length  from  the  whole  company  a  buzz,  or  murmur,  ex- 
pressive of  disapprobation  and  surprise — then,  finally,  of 
terror,  of  horror,  and  of  disgust. 

In  an  assembly  of  phantasms  such  as  I  have  painted,  it 
may  well  be  supposed  that  no  ordinary  appearance  could 
have  excited  such  sensation.  In  truth  the  masquerade 
Hcense  of  the  night  was  nearly  unlimited;  but  the  figure 
in  question  had  out-Heroded  Herod,  and  gone  beyond 
the  bounds  of  even  the  Prince's  indefinite  decorum.  There 
are  chords  in  the  hearts  of  the  most  reckless  which  cannot 
be  touched  without  emotion.  Even  with  the  utterly  lost, 
to  whom  fife  and  death  are  equally  jests,  there  are  mat- 
ters of  which  no  jests  can  be  made.  The  whole  company, 
indeed,  seemed  now  deeply  to  feel  that  in  the  costume  and 
bearing  of  the  stranger  neither  wit  nor  propriety  existed. 
The  figure  was  tall  and  gaunt,  and  shrouded  from  head  to 


88  American  Literature 

foot  in  the  habiliments  of  the  grave.  The  mask  which 
concealed  the  visage  was  made  so  nearly  to  resemble  the 
countenance  of  a  stiffened  corpse  that  the  closest  scrutiny 
must  have  had  difficulty  in  detecting  the  cheat.  And  yet 
all  this  might  have  been  endured,  if  not  approved,  by  the 
mad  revellers  around.  But  the  mummer  had  gone  so  far 
as  to  assume  the  type  of  the  Red  Death.  His  vesture  was 
dabbled  in  hlood — and  his  broad  brow,  with  all  the  features 
of  the  face,  was  besprinkled  with  the  scarlet  horror. 

When  the  eyes  of  Prince  Prospero  fell  upon  this  spectral 
image  (which  with  a  slow  and  solemn  movement,  as  if 
more  fully  to  sustain  its  role,  stalked  to  and  fro  among  the 
waltzers)  he  was  seen  to  be  convulsed,  in  the  first  moment, 
with  a  strong  shudder  either  of  terror  or  distaste;  but,  in 
the  next,  his  brow  reddened  with  rage. 

*'Who  dares?"  he  demanded  hoarsely  of  the  courtiers 
who  stood  near  him — *'who  dares  insult  us  with  this  blas- 
phemous mockery?  Seize  him  and  unmask  him — that  we 
may  know  whom  we  have  to  hang  at  sunrise,  from  the 
battlements!" 

It  was  in  the  eastern  or  blue  chamber  in  which  stood  the 
Prince  Prospero  as  he  uttered  these  words.  They  rang 
throughout  the  seven  rooms  loudly  and  clearly — for  the 
Prince  was  a  bold  and  robust  man,  and  the  music  had  be- 
come hushed  at  the  waving  of  his  hand. 

It  was  in  the  blue  room  where  stood  the  Prince,  with  a 
group  of  pale  courtiers  by  his  side.  At  first,  as  he  spoke, 
there  was  a  slight  rushing  movement  of  this  group  in  the 
direction  of  the  intruder,  who  at  the  moment  was  also  near 
at  hand,  and  now,  with  deliberate  and  stately  step,  made 
closer  approach  to  the  speaker.  But  from  a  certain  name- 
less awe  with  which  the  mad  assumptions  of  the  mummer 
had  inspired  the  whole  party,  there  were  found  none  who 
put  forth  hand  to  seize  him;  so  that,  unimpeded,  he  passed 
within  a  yard  of  the  Prince's  person;  and  while  the  vast 
assembly,  as  if  with  one  impulse,  shrank  from  the  centres 
of  the  rooms  to  the  walls,  he  made  his  way  uninterruptedly, 
but  with  the  same  solemn  and  measured  step  which  had 
distinguished  him  from  the  first,  through  the  blue  chamber 


The  Early  Writers  8^ 

to  the  purple — through  the  purple  to  the  green — through 
the  green  to  the  orange — through  this  again  to  the  white — • 
and  even  thence  to  the  violet,  ere  a  decided  movement  had 
been  made  to  arrest  him.  It  was  then,  however,  that  the 
Prince  Prospero,  maddening  with  rage  and  the  shame  of 
bis  own  momentary  cowardice,  rushed  hurriedly  through 
the  six  chambers,  while  none  followed  him  on  account  of 
a  deadly  terror  that  had  seized  upon  all.  He  bore  aloft  a 
drawn  dagger,  and  had  approached,  in  rapid  impetuosity, 
to  within  three  or  four  feet  of  the  retreating  figure,  when  the 
latter,  having  attained  the  extremity  of  the  velvet  apart- 
ment, turned  suddenly  and  confronted  his  pursuer.  There 
was  a  sharp  cry — and  the  dagger  dropped  gleaming  upon 
the  sable  carpet,  upon  which,  instantly  afterwards,  fell 
prostrate  in  death  the  Prince  Prospero.  Then,  summon- 
ing the  wild  courage  of  despair,  a  throng  of  the  revellers  at 
once  threw  themselves  into  the  black  apartment,  and, 
seizing  the  mummer,  whose  tall  figure  stood  erect  and 
motiohless  within  the  shadow  of  the  ebony  clock,  gasped 
in  unutterable  horror  at  finding  the  grave  cerements  and 
corpse-like  mask,  which  they  handled  with  so  violent  a 
rudeness,  untenanted  by  any  tangible  form. 

And  now  was  acknowledged  the  presence  of  the  Red 
Death.  He  had  come  like  a  thief  in  the  night.  And 
one  by  one  dropped  the  revellers  in  the  blood-bedewed 
halls  of  their  revel,  and  died  each  in  the  despairing  posture 
of  his  fall.  And  the  life  of  the  ebony  clock  went  out  with 
that  of  the  last  of  the  gay.  And  the  flame  of  the  tripods 
expired.  And  Darkness  and  Decay  and  the  Red  Death 
held  ilKmitable  dominion  over  all. 

ISRAFEL 

"And  the  angel  Israfel,  whose  heart-strings  are  a  lute,  and  who 
has  the  sweetest  voice  of  all  God's  creatures." — Koran. 

In  Heaven  a  spirit  doth  dwell, 

"Whose  heart-strings  are  a  lute.'' 
None  sing  so  wildly  well 
As  the  angel  Israfel, 


90  American  Literature 

And  the  giddy  stars  (so  legends  tell) 
Ceasing  their  hymns,  attend  the  spell 
Of  his  voice,  all  mute. 

Tottering  above, 

In  her  highest  noon, 

The  enamoured  moon 
Blushes  with  love, 

While,  to  Hsten*  the  red  leven 

(With  the  rapid  Pleiads,  even, 

Which  were  seven) 

Pauses  in  Heaven. 

And  they  say  (the  starry  choir 
And  the  other  listening  things) 

That  IsrafeU's  fire 

Is  owing  to  that  lyre 

By  which  he  sits  and  sings, — 

The  trembling  living  wire 
Of  those  unusual  strings. 

But  the  skies  that  angel  trod, 

Where  deep  thoughts  are  a  dut)^— 

Where  Love's  a  grown-up  God — 
Where  the  Houri  glances  are 

Imbued  with  all  the  beauty 
Which  we  worship  in  a  star. 

Therefore  thou  art  not  wrong, 

Israfeli,  who  despisest 
An  unimpassioned  song; 
To  thee  the  laurels  belong, 

Best  bard,  because  the  wisest: 
Merrily  live,  and  long ! 

The  ecstasies  above 

With  thy  burning  measures  suit: 

Thy  grief,  thy  joy,  thy  hate,  thy  love, 
With  the  fervor  of  thy  lute: 
Well  may  the  stars  be  mute ! 


The  Early  Writers  91 

Yes,  Heaven  is  thine;  but  this 

Is  a  world  of  sweets  and  sours; 

Our  flowers  are  merely — flowers, 
And  the  shadow  of  thy  perfect  bhss 

Is  the  sunshine  of  ours. 

If  I  could  dwell 
Where  Israfel 

Hath  dwelt,  and  he  where  I, 
He  might  not  sing  so  wildly  well 

A  mortal  melody, — 
While  a  bolder  note  than  this  might  swell 

From  my  lyre  within  the  sky. 

5.  William  Cullen  Bryant  (i  794-1878),  the  patriarch  of 
American  poetry,  was  born  in  Massachusetts  but,  like  Irving 
and  Cooper,  belongs  to  New  York.  He  is  our  first  great  poet 
and  is  often  called  the  American  Wordsworth.  He  was  a 
child  prodigy,  but  in  his  case  the  child  prodigy  became  the 
great  literary  artist  and  producer.  At  the  age  of  seventeen  he 
wrote  Thanatopsis,  a  poem  giving  his  ideas  of  death;  at  the 
age  of  seventy-three  he  began  the  translation  of  Homer  into 
blank  verse.  "For  faithfulness  and  majesty,"  says  Professor 
Newcomer,  "his  translation  ranks  among  the  best  that  have 
been  made." 

The  Death  of  the  Flowers 

The  melancholy  days  are  come,  the  saddest  of  the  year. 
Of  wailing  winds,  and  naked  woods,  and  meadows  brown 

and  sere. 
Heaped  in  the  hollows  of  the  grove,  the  autumn  leaves  lie 

dead; 
They  rustle  to  the  eddying  gust,  and  to  the  rabbit's  tread. 
The  robin  and  the  wren  are  flown,  and  from  the  shrubs  the 

jay, 

And  from  the  wood-top  calls  the  crow  through  all   the 
gloomy  day. 

Where  are  the  flowers,  the  fair  young  flowers,  that  lately 

sprang  and  stood 
In  brighter  light  and  softer  airs,  a  beauteous  sisterhood  ? 


92  American  Literature 

Alas !     They  all  are  in  their  graves,  the  gentle  race  of 

flowers 
Are  lying  in  their  lowly  beds,  with  the  fair  and  good  of 

ours. 
The  rain  is  falling  where  they  lie,  but  the  cold  November 

rain 
Calls  not  from  out  the  gloomy  earth  the  lovely  ones  again. 

The  wind-flower  and  the  violet,  they  perished  long  ago, 
And  the  brier-rose  and  the  orchis  died  amid  the  summer 

glow; 
But  on  the  hill  the  golden-rod,  and  the  aster  in  the  wood, 
And  the  yellow  sun-flower  by  the  brook,  in  autumn  beauty 

stood, 
Till  fell  the  frost  from  the  clear  cold  heaven,  as  falls  the 

plague  on  men. 
And  the  brightness  of  their  smile  was  gone,  from  upland, 

glade,  and  glen. 

And  now,  when  comes  the  calm  mild  day,  as  still  such  days 

will  come. 
To  call  the  squirrel  and  the  bee  from  out  their  winter 

home; 
When  the  sound  of  dropping  nuts  is  heard,  though  all  the 

trees  are  still, 
And  twinkle  in  the  smoky  light  the  waters  of  the  rill. 
The  south  wind  searches  for  the  flowers  whose  fragrance 

late  he  bore, 
And  sighs  to  find  them  in  the  wood  and  by  the  stream 

no  more. 

And  then  I  think  of  one  who  in  her  youthful  beauty  died, 
The  fair  meek  blossom  that  grew  up  and  faded  by  my  side. 
In  the  cold  moist  earth  we  laid  her,  when  the  forest  cast 

the  leaf, 
And  we  wept  that  one  so  lovely  should  have  a  life  so  brief: 
Yet  not  unmeet  it  was  that  one  like  that  young  friend  of 

ours, 
So  gentle  and  so  beautiful  should  perish  with  the  flowers. 


The  Early  Writers  93 


To  A  Waterfowl 

Whither,  'midst  falling  dew, 

While  glow  the  heavens  with  the  last  steps  of  day, 
Far  through  their  rosy  depths,  dost  thou  pursue 

Thy  solitary  way? 

Vainly  the  fowler's  eye 

Might  mark  thy  distant  flight  to  do  thee  wrong, 
As,  darkly  painted  on  the  crimson  sky, 

Thy  figure  floats  along. 

Seek'st  thou  the  plashy  brink 

Of  weedy  lake,  or  marge  of  river  wide, 

Or  where  the  rocking  billows  rise  and  sink 
On  the  chafed  ocean  side  ? 

There  is  a  power  whose  care 

Teaches  thy  way  along  that  pathless  coast, 
The  desert  and  illimitable  air — 

Lone  wandering,  but  not  lost. 

All  day  thy  wings  have  fanned. 

At  that  far  height,  the  cold,  thin  atmosphere, 
Yet  stoop  not,  weary,  to  the  welcome  land, 

Though  the  dark  night  is  near. 

And  soon  that  toil  shall  end; 

Soon  shalt  thou  find  a  summer  home,  and  rest, 
And  scream  among  thy  fellows;  reeds  shall  bend. 

Soon,  o'er  thy  sheltered  nest. 

Thou'rt  gone,  the  abyss  of  heaven 

Hath  swallowed  up  thy  form;  yet  on  my  heart 
Deeply  hath  sunk  the  lesson  thou  hast  given. 

And  shall  not  soon  depart. 

He  who,  from  zone  to  zone. 

Guides  through  the  boundless  sky  thy  certain  flight, 
In  the  long  way  that  I  must  tread  alone, 

Will  lead  my  steps  aright. 


94  American  Literature 


The  Hurricane 


Lord  of  the  winds !  I  feel  thee  nigh, 
I  know  thy  breath  in  the  burning  sky ! 
And  I  wait,  with  a  thrill  in  every  vein, 
For  the  coming  of  the  hurricane ! 

And  lo !  on  the  wing  of  the  heavy  gales, 
Through  the  boundless  arch  of  heaven  he  sails; 
Silent,  and  slow,  and  terribly  strong. 
The  mighty  shadow  is  borne  along, 
Like  the  dark  eternity  to  come; 
While  the  world  below,  dismayed  and  dumb, 
Through  the  calm  of  the  thick  hot  atmosphere 
Looks  up  at  its  gloomy  folds  with  fear. 

They  darken  fast — and  the  golden  blaze 
Of  the  sun  is  quenched  in  the  lurid  haze. 
And  he  sends  through  the  shade  a  funeral  ray — 
A  glare  that  is  neither  night  nor  day, 
A  beam  that  touches,  with  hues  of  death, 
The  clouds  above  and  the  earth  beneath. 
To  its  covert  glides  the  silent  bird, 
While  the  hurricane's  distant  voice  is  heard, 
Uplifted  among  the  mountains  round. 
And  the  forests  hear  and  answer  the  sound. 

He  is  come !  he  is  come !  do  ye  not  behold 
His  ample  robes  on  the  wind  unrolled  ? 
Giant  of  air !  we  bid  thee  hail ! — 
How  his  gray  skirts  toss  in  the  whirling  gale; 
How  his  huge  and  writhing  arms  are  bent, 
To  clasp  the  zone  of  the  firmament. 
And  fold,  at  length,  in  their  dark  embrace. 
From  mountain  to  mountain  the  visible  space. 

Darker — still  darker !  the  whirlwinds  bear 
The  dust  of  the  plains  to  the  middle  air: 
And  hark  to  the  crashing,  long  and  loud, 
Of  the  chariot  of  God  in  the  thunder-cloud ! 
You  may  trace  its  path  by  the  flashes  that  start 
From  the  rapid  wheels  where'er  they  dart, 


The  Early  Writers  95 

As  the  fire-bolts  leap  to  the  world  below, 
And  flood  the  skies  with  a  lurid  glow. 

What  roar  is  that  ? — 'Tis  the  rain  that  breaks, 
In  torrents  away  from  the  airy  lakes, 
Heavily  poured  on  the  shuddering  ground, 
And  shedding  a  nameless  horror  round. 
Ah  !  well-known  woods,  and  mountains,  and  skies, 
With  the  very  clouds ! — ye  are  lost  to  my  eyes. 
I  seek  ye  vainly,  and  see  in  your  place 
The  shadowy  tempest  that  sweeps  through  space, 
A  whirling  ocean  that  fills  the  wall 
Of  the  crystal  heaven,  and  buries  all. 
And  I,  cut  off  from  the  world,  remain 
Alone  with  the  terrible  hurricane. 


To  THE  Fringed  Gentian 

Thou  blossom  bright  with  autumn  dew, 
And  colored  with  the  heaven's  own  blue, 
That  openest,  when  the  quiet  light 
Succeeds  the  keen  and  frosty  night; 

Thou  comest  not  when  violets  lean 
O'er  wandering  brooks  and  springs  unseen, 
Or  columbines,  in  purple  dressed. 
Nod  o'er  the  ground  bird's  hidden  nest. 

Thou  waitest  late,  and  com'st  alone. 
When  woods  are  bare  and  birds  are  flown, 
And  frosts  and  shortening  days  portend 
The  aged  year  is  near  his  end. 

Then  doth  thy  sweet  and  quiet  eye 
Look  through  its  fringes  to  the  sky. 
Blue — blue — as  if  that  sky  let  fall 
A  flower  from  its  cerulean  wall. 

I  would  that  thus,  when  I  shall  see 
The  hour  of  death  draw  near  to  me. 


96  American  Literature 

Hope,  blossoming  within  my  heart, 
May  look  to  heaven  as  I  depart. 

(Compare  with  this  Freneau's  The  Wild  Honeysuckle, 
supra,  p.  53,  and  Wordsworth's  To  the  Small  Celandine.) 

BIBLIOGRAPHY 

I.    Irving 

For  Further  Illustration 

Knickerbocker's  History^  books  V,  VI,  and  VII. 
The  Christmas  Dinner,  in  The  Sketch  Book. 
The  Stout  Gentleman,  in  Bracehridge  Hall. 
Westminster  Abbey. 

For  Collateral  Reading 
Longfellow,  H.  W. :  In  the  Churchyard  at  Tarrytown, 
Thackeray,  W.  M.:  Nil  Nisi  Bonum. 

II.    Cooper 
For  Further  Illustration 

The  Deerslayer,  chapters  XXVII  to  XXXI. 
The  Pilot,  chapters  I  to  IV. 
The  Pioneers,  chapters  III  and  XXVIII. 
Corporal  Flint's  Murder,  in  The  Oak  Openings. 

For  Collateral  Reading 
Bryant's  Memorial  Address,  in  Orations  and  Addresses  of  W.  C. 
Bryant. 

m.    Webster 
For  Further  Illustration 
First  Bunker  Hill  Oration. 
Reply  to  Hayne. 
Second  Bunker  Hill  Oration. 

For  Collateral  Reading 
Whittier,  J.  G. :  Ichabod.     The  Lost  Occasion* 

IV.     POE 

For  Further  Illustration 

A  Descent  into  the  Maelstrom     1 

The  Fall  of  the  House  of  Usher  >  Prose. 

Willicm  Wilson  ) 


The  Early   Writers  97 

Annabel  Lee  1 

The  Bells       \  Poetry. 

The  Raven     J 

For  Collateral  Reading 

Boner,  J.  H.:  Foe's  Cottage  at  Fordham. 

Whitman,   Sarah  Helen:  Sonnets,  in  Stedman's  An  American 

Anthology. 

V.    Bryant 
For  Further  Illustration 
A  Lifetime  (Biographical.) 
The  Inscription  for  the  Entrance  to  a  Wood, 
The  Flanting  of  the  Apple  Tree. 
The  Song  of  Marion'' s  Men. 

For  Collateral  Reading 
Lowell,  J.   R.:    On  Board  the  *76.     A  Fable  for  Critics.     (His 

characterization  of  Bryant.) 
Whitman,  W.:  My  Tribute  to  Four  Poets  (in  Specimen  Days). 

II.    Of  Lesser  Note 

From  the  time  of  Irving  to  the  rise  of  the  brilliant  New- 
England  group  about  the  middle  of  the  century,  New  York 
was  the  loadstar  that  attracted  the  man  of  letters.  Here 
he  could  get  work  on  one  or  several  of  the  many  periodicals 
that  flourished  during  these  years,  and  here  he  could  find 
congenial  companions,  men  of  similar  tastes  and  talents. 

Fitz-Greene  Halleck  (i  790-1 867)  and  Joseph  Rodman  Drake 

( 1 795-1 820)  were  two  of  the  early  New  York  group  of  writers. 
The  friendship  of  these  men  is  one  of  the  most  interesting  in  all 
literary  history.  Halleck  is  remembered  to-day  for  his  beauti- 
ful lines  written  on  the  death  of  his  friend,  and  Drake  for  his 
poem  The  American  Flag,  of  which  the  four  concluding  lines 
were  written  by  Halleck. 

I.  Fitz-Greene  Halleck 

On  the  Death  of  Joseph  Rodman  Drake 
Green  be  the  turf  above  thee. 


Friend  of  my  better  days 


08  ATnerican  Literature 

None  knew  thee  but  to  love  thee, 
Nor  named  thee  but  to  praise. 

Tears  fell  when  thou  wert  dying, 
From  eyes  unused  to  weep, 

And  long,  where  thou  art  lying, 
Will  tears  the  cold  turf  steep. 

When  hearts,  whose  truth  was  proven. 
Like  thine,  are  laid  in  earth. 

There  should  a  wreath  be  woven 
To  tell  the  world  their  worth. 

And  I,  who  woke  each  morrow 
To  clasp  thy  hand  in  mine, 

Who  shared  thy  joy  and  sorrow, 
Whose  weal  and  woe  were  thine; 

It  should  be  mine  to  braid  it 

Around  thy  faded  brow. 
But  I've  in  vain  essayed  it. 

And  feel  I  cannot  now. 

While  memory  bids  me  weep  thee, 
Nor  thoughts  nor  words  are  free, — 

The  grief  is  fixed  too  deeply 
That  mourns  a  man  like  thee. 

2.     Joseph  Rodman  Drake 

The  American  Flag 

When  Freedom,  from  her  mountain  height 

Unfurled  her  standard  to  the  air. 
She  tore  the  azure  robe  of  night. 

And  set  the  stars  of  glory  there. 
She  mingled  with  its  gorgeous  dyes 
The  milky  baldric  of  the  skies. 
And  striped  its  pure  celestial  white 
With  streakings  of  the  morning  light; 
Then,  from  his  mansion  in  the  sun 


The  Early  Writers  99 

She  called  her  eagle  bearer  down, 
And  gave  into  his  mighty  hand 
The  symbol  of  her  chosen  land. 

Majestic  monarch  of  the  cloud, 

Who  rear'st  aloft  thy  regal  form, 
To  hear  the  tempest  trumpings  loud 
And  see  the  lightning  lances  driven. 

When  strive  the  warriors  of  the  storm, 
And  rolls  the  thunder-drum  of  heaven, — 
Child  of  the  sun !  to  thee  'tis  given 

To  guard  the  banner  of  the  free. 
To  hover  in  the  sulphur  smoke, 
To  ward  away  the  battle  stroke. 
And  bid  its  blendings  shine  afar, 
Like  rainbows  on  the  cloud  of  war, 

To  harbingers  of  victory  ! 

Flag  of  the  brave !  thy  folds  shall  fly 
The  sign  of  hope  and  triumph  high ! 
When  speaks  the  signal  trumpet  tone, 
And  the  long  line  comes  gleaming  on. 
Ere  yet  the  Hfe-blood,  warm  and  wet. 
Has  dimmed  the  gHstening  bayonet,^ 
Each  soldier  eye  shall  brightly  turn 
To  where  thy  sky-born  glories  burn. 
And,  as  his  springing  steps  advance, 
Catch  war  and  vengeance  from  the  glance. 
And  when  the  cannon -mou things  loud 
Heave  in  wild  wreaths  the  battle  shroud. 
And  gory  sabres  rise  and  fall 
Like  shoots  of  flame  on  midnight's  pall. 

Then  shall  thy  meteor  glances  glow. 
And  cowering  foes  shall  sink  beneath 

Each  gallant  arm  that  strikes  below 
That  lovely  messenger  of  death. 

Flag  of  the  seas !  on  ocean  wave 
Thy  stars  shall  glitter  o'er  the  brave; 


100  American  Literature 

When  death,  careering  on  the  gale, 
Sweeps  darkly  round  the  belHed  sail, 
And  frighted  waves  rush  wildly  back 
Before  the  broadside's  reeling  rack. 
Each  dying  wanderer  of  the  sea 
Shall  look  at  once  to  heaven  and  thee, 
And  smile  to  see  thy  splendors  fly 
In  triumph  o'er  his  closing  eye. 

Flag  of  the  free  heart's  hope  and  home, 

By  angel  hands  to  valor  given  ! 
Thy  stars  have  Ht  the  welkin  dome. 

And  all  thy  hues  were  born  in  heaven. 
Forever  float  that  standard  sheet ! 

Where  breathes  the  foe  but  falls  before  us, 
With  Freedom's  soil  beneath  our  feet, 

And  Freedom's  banner  streaming  o'er  us ! 

3.  Francis  Scott  Key  (i 779-1843)  was  a  lawyer  of  Wash- 
ington, D.  C.  He  was  inspired  to  write  the  Star-Spangled 
Banner  while  witnessing  from  a  British  man-of-war  the  bom- 
bardment of  Fort  McHenry,  near  Baltimore,  during  the  War 
of  1812. 

The  Star-Spangled  Banner 

O!  say,  can  you  see,  by  the  dawn's  early  light. 
What  so  proudly  we  hail'd  at  the  twilight's  last  gleam- 
ing,— 
Whose  broad  stripes  and  bright  stars,  through  the  perilous 
fight 
O'er  the  ramparts  we  watch'd,  were  so  gallantly  stream- 
ing? 
And  the  rocket's  red  glare,  the  bomb  bursting  in  air. 
Gave  proof  through  the  night  that  our  flag  was  still  there; 
O !  say,  does  that  star-spangled  banner  yet  wave 
O'er  the  land  of  the  free,  and  the  home  of  the  brave? 

On  the  shore  dimly  seen  through  the  mists  of  the  deep. 

Where  the  foe's  haughty  host  in  dread  silence  reposes. 
What  is  that  which  the  breeze,  o'er  the  towering  steep, 


The  Early  WfiUrH  101 

As  it  fitfully  blows,  half  conceals,  half  discloses  ? 
Now  it  catches  the  gleam  of  the  morning's  first  beam, 
In  full  glory  reflected  now  shines  on  the  stream; 

'Tis  the  star-spangled  banner — O  !  long  may  it  wave 
O'er  the  land  of  the  free,  and  the  home  of  the  brave ! 

And  where  is  that  band  who  so  vauntingly  swore, 
That  the  havoc  of  war  and  the  battle's  confusion 

A  home  and  a  country  should  leave  us  no  more  ? 

Their  blood  has  wash'd  out  their  foul  footsteps'  pollution. 

No  refuge  could  save  the  hireling  and  slave 

From  the  terror  of  flight,  or  the  gloom  of  the  grave, 
And  the  star-spangled  banner  in  triumph  doth  wave 
O'er  the  land  of  the  free,  and  the  home  of  the  brave. 

O !  thus  be  it  ever,  when  freemen  shall  stand 

Between  their  lov'd  homes  and  the  war's  desolation  1 

Blest  with  vict'ry  and  peace,  may  the  Heav'n-rescued  land 
Praise  the  power  that  hath  made  and  preserved  us  a  na- 
tion! 

Then  conquer  we  must,  when  our  cause  it  is  just, 

And  this  be  our  motto — In  God  is  our  trusty 

And  the  star-spangled  banner  in  triumph  shall  wave 
O'er  the  land  of  the  free,  and  the  home  of  the  brave. 

4.     Samuel  Woodworth  (i 785-1 842)  was  the  author  of  the 
well-known  song  which  follows. 

The  Bucket 

How  dear  to  this  heart  are  the  scenes  of  my  childhood, 

When  fond  recollection  presents  them  to  view ! 
The  orchard,  the  meadow,  the  deep-tangled  wildwood, 

And  every  loved  spot  which  my  infancy  knew ! 
The  wide-spreading  pond,  and  the  mill  that  stood  by  it, 

The  bridge,  and  the  rock  where  the  cataract  fell. 
The  cot  of  my  father,  the  dairy-house  nigh  it; 

And  e'en  the  rude  bucket  that  hung  in  the  well — 
The  old  oaken  bucket,  the  iron-bound  bucket. 

The  moss-covered  bucket  that  hung  in  the  well. 


102  American  Literature 

The  moss-covered  vessel  I  hailed  as  a  treasure, 

For  often  at  noon,  when  returned  from  the  field, 
I  found  it  the  source  of  an  exquisite  pleasure. 

The  purest  and  sweetest  that  nature  can  yield. 
How  ardent  I  seized  it,  with  hands  that  were  glowing, 

And  quick  to  the  white-pebbled  bottom  it  fell; 
Then  soon,  with  the  emblem  of  truth  over-flowing, 

And  dripping  with  coolness,  it  rose  from  the  well — 
The  old  oaken  bucket,  the  iron-bound  bucket, 

The  moss-covered  bucket  arose  from  the  well. 

How  sweet  from  the  green,  mossy  brim  to  receive  it, 

As  poised  on  the  curb  it  inclined  to  my  lips ! 
Not  a  full,  blushing  goblet  could  tempt  me  to  leave  it, 

The  brightest  that  beauty  or  revelry  sips. 
And  now,  far  removed  from  the  loved  habitation. 

The  tear  of  regret  will  intrusively  swell, 
As  fancy  reverts  to  my  father's  plantation. 

And  sighs  for  the  bucket  that  hangs  in  the  well — 
The  old  oaken  bucket,  the  iron-bound  bucket. 

The  moss-covered  bucket  that  hangs  in  the  well ! 

5.  Emma  H.  Willard  (i 787-1 870)  was  a  Connecticut  woman 
who  became  famous  as  an  educator.  She  wrote  the  familiar 
hymn  Rocked  in  the  Cradle  of  the  Deep. 

Rocked  in  the  Cradle  of  the  Deep 

Rocked  in  the  cradle  of  the  deep 
I  lay  me  down  in  peace  to  sleep; 
Secure  I  rest  upon  the  wave, 
For  thou,  O  Lord !  hast  power  to  save. 
I  know  thou  wilt  not  slight  my  call, 
For  Thou  dost  mark  the  sparrow's  fall; 
And  calm  and  peaceful  shall  I  sleep. 
Rocked  in  the  cradle  of  the  deep. 

When  in  the  dead  of  night  I  lie 
And  gaze  upon  the  trackless  sky, 


The  Early  Writers  103 

The  star-bespangled  heavenly  scroll, 
The  boundless  waters  as  they  roll, — 
I  feel  thy  wondrous  power  to  save 
From  perils  of  the  stormy  wave: 
Rocked  in  the  cradle  of  the  deep, 
I  calmly  rest  and  soundly  sleep. 

And  such  the  trust  that  still  were  mine, 
Though  stormy  winds  swept  o'er  the  brine, 
Or  through  the  tempest's  fiery  breath 
Roused  me  from  sleep  to  wreck  and  death. 
In  ocean  cave,  still  safe  with  Thee 
The  germ  of  immortality ! 
And  calm  and  peaceful  shall  I  sleep, 
Rocked  in  the  cradle  of  the  deep. 

6.  John  Howard  Payne  (i 791-1852)  was  a  dramatist 
who  won  lasting  fame  through  his  song  Homey  Sweet  Home  I 
This  occurs  in  his  opera  Clari,  the  Maid  of  Milan,  which  was 
first  produced  at  Covent  Garden,  London,  in  1823. 

Home,  Sweet  Home! 

Mid  pleasures  and  palaces  though  we  may  roam. 

Be  it  ever  so  humble,  there's  no  place  like  home; 

A  charm  from  the  sky  seems  to  hallow  us  there, 

Which,  seek  through  the  world,  is  ne'er  met  with  elsewhere. 

Home,  Home,  sweet,  sweet  Home ! 
There's  no  place  Hke  Home !  there's  no  place. like  Home ! 

An  exile  from  home,  splendor  dazzles  in  vain; 

O,  give  me  my  lowly  thatched  cottage  again ! 

The  birds  singing  gayly,  that  came  at  my  call, — 

Give  me  them — and  the  peace  of  mind,  dearer  than  all ! 

Home,  Home,  sweet,  sweet  Home ! 
There's  no  place  like  Home !  there's  no  place  like  Home ! 

How  sweet  'tis  to  sit  'neath  a  fond  father's  smile. 
And  the  cares  of  a  mother  to  soothe  and  beguile ! 


104  American  Literature 

Let  others  delight  mid  new  pleasures  to  roam, 
But  give  me,  O,  give  me,  the  pleasures  of  home ! 

Home !  Home !  sweet,  sweet  Home ! 
There's  no  place  like  Home !  there's  no  place  like  Home ! 

To  thee  I'll  return,  overburdened  with  care; 
The  heart's  dearest  solace  will  smile  on  me  there; 
No  more  from  that  cottage  again  will  I  roam; 
Be  it  ever  so  humble,  there's  no  place  like  home. 

Home !  Home !  sweet,  sweet  Home ! 
There's  no  place  like  Home !  there's  no  place  hke  Home ! 

7.     George   Morris  (i 802-1864)  is  remembered  to-day  for 
his  poem  WoodmaUj  Spare  That  Tree. 

Woodman,  Spare  That  Tree  ! 

Woodman,  spare  that  tree ! 

Touch  not  a  single  bough ! 
In  youth  it  sheltered  me, 

And  I'll  protect  it  now. 
'T  was  my  forefather's  hand 

That  placed  it  near  his  cot; 
There,  woodman,  let  it  stand, 

Thy  axe  shall  harm  it  not. 

The  old  familiar  tree, 

Whose  glory  and  renown 
Are  spread  o'er  land  and  sea — 

And  wouldst  thou  hew  it  down  ? 
Woodman,  forbear  thy  stroke ! 

Cut  not  its  earth-bound  ties; 
Oh,  spare  that  aged  oak 

Now  towering  to  the  skies ! 

When  but  an  idle  boy, 

I  sought  its  grateful  shade; 
In  all  their  gushing  joy 

Here,  too,  my  sisters  played. 


The  Early  WriUrs  105 

My  mother  kissed  me  here; 

My  father  pressed  my  hand — 
Forgive  this  foolish  tear, 

But  let  that  old  oak  stand. 

My  heart-strings  round  thee  cling, 

Close  as  thy  bark,  old  friend ! 
Here  shall  the  wild-bird  sing. 

And  still  thy  branches  bend. 
Old  tree !  the  storm  still  brave ! 

And,  woodman,  leave  the  spot; 
While  I've  a  hand  to  save. 

Thy  axe  shall  harm  it  not. 

8.  Nathaniel  Parker  Willis  (i 807-1 867)  was  bom  in  New 
England  and  educated  at  Yale,  but  he  identified  himself  with 
the  literary  life  of  New  York  City,  especially  with  its  periodi- 
cal literature.  He  was  sent  abroad  by  the  management  of  the 
Mirror  in  order  to  contribute  European  letters  to  the  magazine. 
He  founded  the  Home  Journal,  a  weekly  which  is  still  popular. 
Professor  Barrett  Wendell  considers  him  the  most  characteris- 
tic New  York  man  of  letters  after  the  year  1832,  the  most 
typical  of  the  school  which  flourished  throughout  the  career 
of  the  Knickerbocker  Magazine  (1833-1864),  and  says:  "  In 
his  palmy  days  he  was  the  most  popular  American  writer  out- 
side of  New  England."  But  his  work  has  proved  ephemeral, 
for  it  was  almost  wholly  occasional.  His  Scared  Poems  repre- 
sent his  best  achievement. 

The  Belfry  Pigeon 

On  the  cross-beam  under  the  Old  South  bell, 

The  nest  of  a  pigeon  is  builded  well. 

In  summer  and  winter,  that  bird  is  there, 

Out  and  in  with  the  morning  air; 

I  love  to  see  him  track  the  street 

With  his  wary  eye  and  active  feet, 

And  I  often  watch  him,  as  he  springs, 

CircUng  the  steeple  with  easy  wings. 

Till  across  the  dial  his  shade  has  passed, 


106  American  Literature 

And  the  belfry  edge  is  gained  at  last; 
'Tis  a  bird  I  love,  with  its  brooding  note, 
And  the  trembling  throb  in  its  mottled  throat; 
There's  a  human  look  in  its  swelHng  breast, 
And  the  gentle  curve  of  its  lowly  crest; 
And  I  often  stop  with  the  fear  I  feel, — 
He  runs  so  close  to  the  rapid  wheel. 

Whatever  is  rung  on  that  noisy  bell, — 
Chime  of  the  hour,  or  funeral  knell, — 
The  dove  in  the  belfry  must  hear  it  well. 
When  the  tongue  swings  out  to  the  midnight  moon, 
When  the  sexton  cheerly  rings  for  noon. 
When  the  clock  strikes  clear  at  morning  light, 
When  the  child  is  waked  with  "nine  at  night,'* 
When  the  chimes  play  soft  in  the  Sabbath  air, 
Filling  the  spirit  with  tones  of  prayer, — 
Whatever  tale  in  the  bell  is  heard, 
He  broods  on  his  folded  feet  unstirred, 
Or,  rising  half  in  his  rounded  nest. 
He  takes  the  time  to  smooth  his  breast; 
Then,  drops  again,  with  filmed  eyes, 
And  sleeps  as  the  last  vibration  dies. 

Sweet  bird !  I  would  that  I  could  be 
A  hermit  in  the  crowd  like  thee ! 
With  wings  to  fly  to  wood  and  glen. 
Thy  lot,  Hke  mine,  is  cast  with  men; 
And,  daily,  with  unwilling  feet, 
I  tread,  like  thee,  the  crowded  street; 
But,  unlike  me,  when  day  is  o'er. 
Thou  canst  dismiss  the  world,  and  soar; 
Or,  at  a  half-felt  wish  for  rest. 
Canst  smooth  the  feathers  on  thy  breast. 
And  drop,  forgetful,  to  thy  nest. 

I  would  that,  on  such  wings  of  gold, 
I  could  my  weary  heart  upfold; 
I  would  I  could  look  down  unmoved, 
(Unloving  as  I  am  unloved) 
And  while  the  world  throngs  on  beneath, 


The  Early  Writers  107 

Smooth  down  my  cares  and  calmly  breathe; 
And,  never  sad  with  others'  sadness, 
And,  never  glad  with  others'  gladness, 
Listen,  unstirred,  to  knell  or  chime, 
And,  lapped  in  quiet,  bide  my  time. 

Absalom 

The  waters  slept.     Night's  silvery  veil  hung  low 
On  Jordan's  bosom,  and  the  eddies  curled 
Their  glassy  rings  beneath  it,  Hke  the  still, 
Unbroken  beating  of  the  sleeper's  pulse. 
The  reeds  bent  down  the  stream;  the  willow  leaves, 
With  a  soft  cheek  upon  the  lulling  tide. 
Forgot  the  Hfting  winds;  and  the  long  stems, 
Whose  flowers  the  water,  like  a  gentle  nurse, 
Bears  on  its  bosom,  quietly  gave  way. 
And  leaned  in  graceful  attitudes  to  rest. 
How  strikingly  the  -course  of  nature  tells, 
By  its  light  heed  of  human  suffering, 
That  it  was  fashioned  for  a  happier  world ! 

King  David's  limbs  were  weary.     He  had  fled 
From  far  Jerusalem;  and  now  he  stood. 
With  his  faint  people,  for  a  little  rest. 
Upon  the  shore  of  Jordan.     The  light  wind 
Of  morn  was  stirring,  and  he  bared  his  brow 
To  its  refreshing  breath;  for  he  had  worn 
The  mourner's  covering,  and  he  had  not  felt 
That  he  could  see  his  people  until  now. 
They  gathered  round  him  on  the  fresh  green  bank, 
And  spoke  their  kindly  words;  and,  as  the  sun 
Rose  up  in  heaven,  he  knelt  among  them  there, 
And  bowed  his  head  upon  his  hands  to  pray. 
Oh !  when  the  heart  is  full, — when  bitter  thoughts 
Come  crowding  thickly  up  for  utterance. 
And  the  poor  common  words  of  courtesy 
Are  such  an  empty  mockery, — how  much 
The  bursting  heart  may  pour  itself  in  prayer ! 


108  American  Literature 

He  prayed  for  Israel;  and  his  voice  went  up 

Strongly  and  fervently.     He  prayed  for  those 

Whose  love  had  been  his  shield;  and  his  deep  tones 

Grew  tremulous.     But,  oh !  for  Absalom, — 

For  his  estranged,  misguided  Absalom, — 

The  proud,  bright  being  who  had  burst  away 

In  all  his  princely  beauty,  to  defy 

The  heart  that  cherished  him, — for  him  he  poured, 

In  agony  that  would  not  be  controlled. 

Strong  supplication,  and  forgave  him  there, 

Before  his  God,  for  his  deep  sinfulness. 


The  pall  was  settled.     He  who  slept  beneath 
Was  straightened  for  the  grave;  and,  as  the  folds 
Sunk  to  the  still  proportions,  they  betrayed 
The  matchless  symmetry  of  Absalom. 
His  hair  was  yet  unshorn,  and  silken  curls 
Were  floating  round  the  tassels  as  they  swayed 
To  the  admitted  air,  as  glossy  now 
As  when,  in  hours  of  gentle  dalliance,  bathing 
The  snowy  fingers  of  Judea's  daughters. 
His  helm  was  at  his  feet;  his  banner,  soiled 
With  trailing  through  Jerusalem,  was  laid, 
Reversed,  beside  him;  and  the  jeweled  hilt, 
Whose  diamonds  lit  the  passage  of  his  blade, 
Rested,  like  mockery,  on  his  covered  brow. 
The  soldiers  of  the  king  trod  to  and  fro, 
Clad  in  the  garb  of  battle;  and  their  chief. 
The  mighty  Joab,  stood  beside  the  bier, 
And  gazed  upon  the  dark  pall  steadfastly. 
As  if  he  feared  the  slumberer  might  stir. 
A  slow  step  startled  him.     He  grasped  his  blade 
As  if  a  trumpet  rang;  but  the  bent  form 
Of  David  entered,  and  he  gave  command. 
In  a  low  tone,  to  his  few  followers. 
And  left  him  with  his  dead.     The  king  stood  still 
Till  the  last  echo  died;  then,  throwing  off 
The  sackcloth  from  his  brow,  and  laying  back 


The  Early  Writers  109 

The  pall  from  the  still  features  of  his  child, 
He  bowed  his  head  upon  him,  and  broke  forth 
In  the  resistless  eloquence  of  woe: 

"Alas !  my  noble  boy !  that  thou  shouldst  die ! 

Thou,  who  were  made  so  beautifully  fair ! 
That  death  should  settle  in  thy  glorious  eye, 

And  leave  his  stillness  in  this  clustering  hair ! 
How  could  he  mark  thee  for  the  silent  tomb, 

My  proud  boy,  Absalom ! 

"Cold  is  thy  brow,  my  son !  and  I  am  chill 
As  to  my  bosom  I  have  tried  to  press  thee ! 

How  was  I  wont  to  feel  my  pulses  thrill. 

Like  a  rich  harp-string,  yearning  to  caress  thee, 

And  hear  thy  sweet  'My  father  /'  from  these  dumb 
And  cold  lips,  Absalom ! 

"But  death  is  on  thee.    I  shall  hear  the  gush 
Of  music,  and  the  voices  of  the  young; 

And  life  will  pass  me  in  the  mantling  blush. 
And  the  dark  tresses  to  the  soft  winds  flung, — 

But  thou  no  more,  with  thy  sweet  voice,  shalt  come 
To  meet  me,  Absalom ! 

"And,  oh !  when  I  am  stricken,  and  my  heart, 
Like  a  bruised  reed,  is  waiting  to  be  broken, 

How  will  its  love  for  thee,  as  I  depart. 

Yearn  for  thine  ear  to  drink  its  last  deep  token ! 

It  were  so  sweet,  amid  death's  gathering  gloom, 
To  see  thee,  Absalom ! 

"And  now,  farewell !     'Tis  hard  to  give  thee  up, 
With  death  so  like  a  gentle  slumber  on  thee; 

And  thy  dark  sin ! — Oh !  I  could  drink  the  cup, 
If  from  this  woe  its  bitterness  had  won  thee. 

May  God  have  called  thee,  like  a  wanderer,  home, 
My  lost  boy,  Absalom !" 


110  American  Literature 

He  covered  up  his  face,  and  bowed  himself 
A  moment  on  his  child;  then,  giving  him 
A  look  of  melting  tenderness,  he  clasped 
His  hands  convulsively,  as  if  in  prayer; 
And,  as  if  strength  were  given  him  of  God, 
He  rose  up  calmly,  and  composed  the  pall 
Firmly  and  decently,  and  left  him  there, 
As  if  his  rest  had  been  a  breathing  sleep. 

9.  William  Gilmore  Simms  (i  806-1 870)  was  a  talented 
Southern  novelist  and  poet.  His  tales  show  the  influence  of 
Brown  and  Cooper.  The  Partisan,  published  in  1835,  is  num- 
bered among  his  best  stories.    One  of  his  poems  follows. 

The  Lost  Pleiad 

Not  in  the  sky. 

Where  it  was  seen 

So  long  in  eminence  of  light  serene, — 

Nor  on  the  white  tops  of  the  glistering  wave, 

Nor  down,  in  mansions  of  the  hidden  deep, 

Though  beautiful  in  green 

And  crystal,  its  great  caves  of  mystery, — 

Shall  the  bright  watcher  have 

Her  place,  and,  as  of  old,  high  station  keep  I 

Gone !  gone ! 

Oh  !  nevermore,  to  cheer 

The  mariner,  who  holds  his  course  alone 

On  the  Atlantic,  through  the  weary  night, 

When  the  stars  turn  to  watchers,  and  do  sleep, 

Shall  it  again  appear, 

With  the  sweet-loving  certainty  of  light, 

Down  shining  on  the  shut  eyes  of  the  deep ! 

The  upward-looking  shepherd  on  the  hills 
Of  Chaldea,  night-returning  with  his  flocks, 
He  wonders  why  his  beauty  doth  not  blaze, 
Gladding  his  gaze, — 
And,  from  his  dreary  watch  along  the  rocks, 


The  Early  Writers  111 

Guiding  him  homeward  o'er  the  perilous  ways ! 

How  stands  he  waiting  still,  in  a  sad  maze, 

Much  wondering,  whiie  the  drowsy  silence  fills 

The  sorrowful  vault ! — how  lingers,  in  the  hope  that  night 

May  yet  renew  the  expected  and  sweet  light, 

So  natural  to  his  sight ! 

And  lone. 

Where,  at  the  first,  in  smiling  love  she  shone. 

Brood  the  once  happy  circle  of  bright  stars: 

How  should  they  dream,  until  her  fate  was  known, 

That  they  were  ever  confiscate  to  death  ? 

That  dark  oblivion  the  pure  beauty  mars. 

And,  Kke  the  earth,  its  common  bloom  and  breath, 

That  they  should  fall  from  high; 

Their  lights  grow  blasted  by  a  touch,  and  die, 

All  their  concerted  springs  of  harmony 

Snapt  rudely,  and  the  generous  music  gone ! 

Ah  !  still  the  strain 

Of  wailing  sweetness  fills  the  saddening  sky; 
The  sister  stars,  lamenting  in  their  pain 
That  one  of  the  selectest  ones  must  die, — 
Must  vanish,  when  most  lovely,  from  the  rest ! 
Alas !  'tis  ever  thus  the  destiny. 
Even  Rapture's  song  hath  evermore  a  tone 
Of  waiHng,  as  for  bhss  too  quickly  gone. 
The  hope  most  precious  is  the  soonest  lost, 
The  flower  most  sweet  is  first  to  feel  the  frost. 
Are  not  all  short-lived  things  the  loveliest  ? 
And,  like  the  pale  star,  shooting  down  the  sky, 
Look  they  not  ever  brightest,  as  they  fly 
From  the  lone  sphere  they  blest  ? 

lo.  Richard  Henry  Dana,  Jr.  (i8i 5-1882)  was  born  in  Cam- 
bridge, Mass.,  and  was  educated  at  Harvard.  While  at  college 
he  interrupted  his  course  to  take  a  two  years'  voyage  to  the 
Pacific  coast  on  account  of  his  health.  He  shipped  as  a 
common  sailor,  and  his  experiences  form  the  subject-matter  of 
Two    Years  Before  the  Mast  (1840),  the  book  which  has  made 


112  American  Literature 

his  name  famous.  Mr.  William  J.  Long  calls  this  book  a  verita- 
ble classic  and  says:  "  After  more  than  half  a  century  we  can 
still  recommend  it  as  a  virile,  wholesome  story,  and  as  probably 
the  best  reflection  of  sailor  life  in  the  old  days  when  American 
ships  and  seamen  were  known  and  honored  the  world  over." 

A  Flogging  at  Sea 

(From  Two  Years  Before  the  Mast) 

(chapter  xv) 

For  several  days  the  captain  seemed  very  much  out  of 
humour.  Nothing  went  right  or  fast  enough  for  him.  He 
quarrelled  with  the  cook,  and  threatened  to  flog  him  for 
throwing  wood  on  deck,  and  had  a  dispute  with  the  mate 
about  reeving  a  Spanish  burton;  the  mate  saying  that  he 
was  right,  and  had  been  taught  how  to  do  it  by  a  man 
who  was  a  sailor !  This  the  captain  took  in  dudgeon  and 
they  were  at  swords'  points  at  once.  But  his  displeasure 
was  chiefly  turned  against  a  large,  heavy-moulded  fellow 
from  the  Middle  States,  who  was  called  Sam.  This  man 
hesitated  in  his  speech,  was  rather  slow  in  his  motions,  and 
was  only  a  tolerably  good  sailor,  but  usually  seemed  to  do 
his  best;  yet  the  captain  took  a  dislike  to  him,  thought  he 
was  surly  and  lazy,  and  *'if  you  once  give  a  dog  a  bad 
name" — as  the  sailor-phrase  is — "he  may  as  well  jump 
overboard."  The  captain  found  fault  with  everything  this 
man  did,  and  hazed  him  for  dropping  a  marUne-spike  from 
the  mainyard,  where  he  was  at  work.  This,  of  course,  was 
an  accident,  but  it  was  set  down  against  him.  The  cap- 
tain was  on  board  all  day  Friday,  and  everything  went  on 
hard  and  disagreeably.  *'The  more  you  drive  a  man,  the 
less  he  will  do,"  was  as  true  with  us  as  with  any  other  peo- 
ple. We  worked  late  Friday  night,  and  were  turned-to 
early  Saturday  morning.  About  ten  o'clock  the  captain 
ordered  our  new  officer,  Russell,  who  by  this  time  had 
become  thoroughly  disKked  by  all  the  crew,  to  get  the  gig 
ready  to  take  him  ashore.  John,  the  Swede,  was  sitting 
in  the  boat  alongside,  and  Mr.  Russell  and  I  were  standing 
by  the  main  hatchway,  waiting  for  the  captain,  who  was 


The  Early  Writers  113 

down  in  the  hold,  where  the  crew  were  at  work,  when  we 
heard  his  voice  raised  in  violent  dispute  with  somebody, 
whether  it  was  with  the  mate  or  one  of  the  crew  I  could  not 
tell,  and  then  came  blows  and  scuffling.  I  ran  to  the  side 
and  beckoned  to  John,  who  came  aboard,  and  we  leaned 
down  the  hatchway,  and  though  we  could  see  no  one,  yet 
we  knew  that  the  captain  had  the  advantage,  for  his  voice 
was  loud  and  clear — 

''You  see  your  condition!  You  see  your  condition! 
Will  you  ever  give  me  any  more  of  your  jaw  ?  "  No  answer; 
and  then  came  wrestling  and  heaving,  as  though  the  man 
was  trying  to  turn  him.  ''You  may  as  well  keep  still,  for 
I  have  got  you,"  said  the  captain.  Then  came  the  ques- 
tion, "Will  you  ever  give  me  any  more  of  your  jaw?" 

"I  never  gave  you  any,  sir,"  said  Sam;  for  it  was  his 
voice  that  we  heard,  though  low  and  half  choked. 

"That's  not  what  I  ask  you.  Will  you  ever  be  impu- 
dent to  me  again?" 

"I  never  have  been,  sir,"  said  Sam. 

"Answer  my  question,  or  I'll  make  a  spread  eagle  of 
you !     I'll  flog  you,  by  G— d." 

"I'm  no  negro  slave,"  said  Sam. 

"Then  I'll  make  you  one,"  said  the  captain;  and  he 
came  to  the  hatchway,  and  sprang  on  deck,  threw  off  his 
coat,  and,  rolling  up  his  sleeves,  called  out  to  the  mate: 
"Seize  that  man  up,  Mr.  Amerzene!  Seize  him  up! 
Make  a  spread  eagle  of  him!  I'll  teach  you  all  who  is 
master  aboard !" 

The  Crew  and  officers  followed  the  captain  up  the  hatch- 
way; but  it  was  not  until  after  repeated  orders  that  the 
mate  laid  hold  of  Sam,  who  made  no  resistance,  and  car- 
ried him  to  the  gangway. 

"What  are  you  going  to  flog  that  man  for,  sir?"  said 
John,  the  Swede,  to  the  captain. 

Upon  hearing  this,  the  captain  turned  upon  John;  but, 
knowing  him  to  be  quick  and  resolute,  he  ordered  the 
steward  to  bring  the  irons,  and,  caUing  upon  Russell  to 
help  him,  went  up  to  John. 

"Let  me  alone,"  said  John.     "I'm  willing  to  be  put  in 


114  American  Literature 

irons.  You  need  not  use  any  force;"  and,  putting  out  his 
hands,  the  captain  slipped  the  irons  on,  and  sent  him  aft 
to  the  quarter-deck.  Sam,  by  this  time,  was  seized  up,  as 
it  is  called;  that  is  placed  against  the  shrouds,  with  his 
wrists  made  fast  to  them,  his  jacket  off,  and  his  back  ex- 
posed. The  captain  stood  on  the  break  of  the  deck,  a 
few  feet  from  him,  and  a  httle  raised,  so  as  to  have  a  good 
swing  at  him,  and  held  in  his  hand  the  end  of  a  thick, 
strong  rope.  The  officers  stood  round,  and  the  crew 
grouped  together  in  the  waist.  All  these  preparations 
made  me  feel  sick  and  almost  faint,  angry  and  excited  as 
I  was.  A  man — a  human  being,  made  in  God's  Ukeness — 
fastened  up  and  flogged  like  a  beast !  A  man,  too,  whom 
I  had  lived  with,  eaten  with,  and  stood  watch  with  for 
months,  and  knew  so  well!  If  a  thought  of  resistance 
crossed  the  minds  of  any  of  the  men,  what  was  to  be  done  ? 
Their  time  for  it  had  gone  by.  Two  men  were  fast,  and 
there  were  left  only  two  men  besides  Stimson  and  myself, 
and  a  small  boy  of  ten  or  twelve  years  of  age;  and  Stimson 
and  I  would  not  have  joined  the  men  in  a  mutiny,  as  they 
knew.  And  then,  on  the  other  side,  there  were  (besides 
the  captain)  three  officers,  steward,  agent,  and  clerk,  and 
the  cabin  supplied  with  weapons.  But  besides  the  num- 
bers, what  is  there  for  sailors  to  do?  If  they  resist,  it  is 
mutiny;  and  if  they  succeed,  and  take  the  vessel,  it  is 
piracy.  If  they  ever  yield  again,  their  punishment  must 
come;  and  if  they  do  not  yield,  what  are  they  to  be  for  the 
rest  of  their  lives?  If  a  sailor  resist  his  commander,  he 
resists  the  law,  and  piracy  or  submission  is  his  only  alterna- 
tive. Bad  as  it  was,  they  saw  it  must  be  borne.  It  is 
what  a  sailor  ships  for.  Swinging  the  rope  over  his  head, 
and  bending  his  body  so  as  to  give  it  full  force,  the  captain 
brought  it  down  upon  the  poor  fellow's  back.  Once,  twice, 
— six  times.  ''Will  you  ever  give  me  any  more  of  your 
jaw?"  The  man  writhed  with  pain,  but  said  not  a  word. 
Three  times  more.  This  was  too  much,  and  he  muttered 
something  which  I  could  not  hear;  this  brought  as  many 
more  as  the  man  could  stand,  when  the  captain  ordered 
him  to  be  cut  down. 


The  Early  Writers  115 

"Now  for  you,"  said  the  captain,  making  up  to  John, 
and  taking  his  irons  off.  As  soon  as  John  was  loose,  he 
ran  forward  to  the  forecastle.  ''Bring  that  man  aft!'* 
shouted  the  captain.  The  second  mate,  who  had  been  in 
the  forecastle  with  these  men  in  the  early  part  of  the  voy- 
age, stood  still  in  the  waist,  and  the  mate  walked  slowly 
forward;  but  our  third  officer,  anxious  to  show  his  zeal, 
sprang  forward  over  the  windlass,  and  laid  hold  of  John; 
but  John  soon  threw  him  from  him.  The  captain  stood  on 
the  quarter-deck,  bareheaded,  his  eyes  flashing  with  rage, 
and  his  face  as  red  as  blood,  swinging  the  rope,  and  calling 
out  to  this  officers,  ''Drag  him  aft!  Lay  hold  of  him! 
I'll  sweeten  him  .^"  etc.,  etc.  The  mate  now  went  forward, 
and  told  John  quietly  to  go  aft;  and  he,  seeing  resistance 
vain,  threw  the  blackguard  third  mate  from  him,  said  he 
would  go  aft  of  himself,  that  they  should  not  drag  him,  and 
went  up  to  the  gangway  and  held  out  his  hands;  but  as 
soon  as  the  captain  began  to  make  him  fast,  the  indignity 
was  too  much,  and  he  struggled;  but,  the  mate  and  Rus- 
sell holding  him,  he  was  soon  seized  up.  When  he  was 
made  fast,  he  turned  to  the  captain,  who  stood  rolling  up 
his  sleeves,  getting  ready  for  the  blow,  and  asked  him  what 
he  was  to  be  flogged  for.  "Have  I  ever  refused  my  duty, 
sir?  Have  you  ever  known  me  to  hang  back  or  to  be  in- 
solent, or  not  to  know  my  work?" 

"No,"  said  the  captain,  "it  is  not  that  that  I  flog  you 
for;  I  flog  you  for  your  interference,  for  asking  ques- 
tions." 

"Can't  a  man  ask  a  question  here  without  being 
flogged?" 

"No,"  shouted  the  captain;  "nobody  shall  open  his 
mouth  aboard  this  vessel  but  myself";  and  he  began  lay- 
ing the  blows  upon  his  back,  swinging  half  round  between 
each  blow,  to  give  it  full  effect.  As  he  went  on  his  passion 
increased,  and  he  danced  about  the  deck,  calling  out,  as 
he  swung  the  rope,  "If  you  want  to  know  what  I  flog  you 
for,  I'll  tell  you.  It's  because  I  like  to  do  it !  because  I  like 
to  do  it !     It  suits  me !     That's  what  I  do  it  for !" 

The  man  writhed  under  the  pain  until  he  could  endure 


116  American  Literature 

it  no  longer,  when  he  called  out,  with  an  exclamation  more 
common  among  foreigners  than  with  us:  "O  Jesus  Christ! 
O  Jesus  Christ!" 

''Don't  call  on  Jesus  Christ,"  shouted  the  captain;  "Fe 
can't  help  you.  Call  on  Frank  Thompson  !  He's  the  man ! 
He  can  help  you !    Jesus  Christ  can't  help  you  now !" 

At  these  words,  which  I  never  shall  forget,  my  blood  ran 
cold.  I  could  look  on  no  longer.  Disgusted,  sick,  I  turned 
away,  and  leaned  over  the  rail,  and  looked  down  into  the 
water.  A  few  rapid  thoughts,  I  don't  know  what — our 
situation,  a  resolution  to  see  the  captain  punished  when 
we  got  home — crossed  my  mind;  but  the  falling  of  the 
blows  and  the  cries  of  the  man  called  me  back  once  more. 
At  length  they  ceased,  and,  turning  round,  I  found  that 
the  mate,  at  a  signal  from  the  captain,  had  cast  him  loose. 
Almost  doubled  up  with  pain,  the  man  walked  slowly  for- 
ward, and  went  down  into  the  forecastle.  Every  one  else 
stood  still  at  his  post,  while  the  captain,  swelling  with  rage 
and  with  the  importance  of  his  achievement,  walked  the 
quarter-deck,  and  at  each  turn,  as  he  came  forward,  call- 
ing out  to  us:  "You  see  your  condition!  You  see  where 
IVe  got  you  all,  and  you  know  what  to  expect !  You've 
been  mistaken  in  me !  You  didn't  know  what  I  was  I 
Now  you  know  what  I  am !  I'll  make  you  toe  the  mark, 
every  soul  of  you,  or  I'll  flog  you  all,  fore  and  aft,  from  the 
boy  up !  You've  got  a  driver  over  you !  Yes,  a  slave- 
driver — a  nigger-driver  I  I'll  see  who'll  tell  me  he  isn't  a 
NIGGER  slave!"  With  this  and  the  like  matter,  equally 
calculated  to  quiet  us,  and  to  allay  any  apprehensions  of 
future  trouble,  he  entertained  us  for  about  ten  minutes, 
when  he  went  below.  Soon  after,  John  came  aft,  with  his 
bare  back  covered  with  stripes  and  wales  in  every  direc- 
tion, and  dreadfully  swollen,  and  asked  the  steward  to 
ask  the  captain  to  let  him  have  some  salve,  or  balsam,  to 
put  upon  it.  "No,"  said  the  captain,  who  heard  him  from 
below;  "tell  him  to  put  his  shirt  on;  that's  the  best  thing 
for  him,  and  pull  me  ashore  in  the  boat.  Nobody  is  going 
to  lay-up  on  board  this  vessel."  He  then  called  to  Mr. 
RusseU  to  take  those  two  men  and  two  others  in  the  boat, 


The  Early  Writers  117 

and  pull  him  ashore.  I  went  for  one.  The  two  men  could 
hardly  bend  their  backs,  and  the  captain  called  to  them  to 
"give  way!"  but  finding  they  did  their  best,  he  let  them 
alone.  The  agent  was  in  the  stern  sheets,  but  during  the 
whole  pull — a  league  or  more — not  a  word  was  spoken. 
We  landed;  the  captain,  agent,  and  officer  went  up  to  the 
house,  and  left  us  with  the  boat.  I  and  the  man  with  me 
stayed  near  the  boat,  while  John  and  Sam  walked  slowly 
away,  and  sat  down  on  the  rocks.  They  talked  some  time 
together,  but  at  length  separated,  each  sitting  alone.  I 
had  some  fears  of  John.  He  was  a  foreigner,  and  violently 
tempered,  and  under  suffering;  and  he  had  his  knife  with 
him,  and  the  captain  was  to  come  down  alone  to  the  boat. 
But  nothing  happened;  and  we  went  quietly  on  board. 
The  captain  was  probably  armed,  and  if  either  of  them 
had  lifted  a  hand  against  him,  they  would  have  had  noth- 
ing before  them  but  flight,  and  starvation  in  the  woods 
of  Cahfornia,  or  capture  by  the  soldiers  and  Indians, 
whom  the  offer  of  twenty  dollars  would  have  set  upon 
them. 

After  the  day's  work  was  done  we  went  down  into  the 
forecastle  and  ate  our  plain  supper;  but  not  a  word  was 
spoken.  It  was  Saturday  night;  but,  there  was  no  song 
— no  "sweethearts  and  wives."  A  gloom  was  over  every- 
thing. The  two  men  lay  in  their  berths,  groaning  with 
pain,  and  we  all  turned  in,  but,  for  myself,  not  to  sleep. 
A  sound  coming  now  and  then  from  the  berths  of  the  two 
men  showed  that  they  were  awake,  as  awake  they  must 
have  been,  for  they  could  hardly  He  in  one  posture  long; 
the  dim  swinging  lamp  shed  its  light  over  the  dark  hole  in 
which  we  lived,  and  many  and  various  reflections  and  pur- 
poses coursed  through  my  mind.  I  had  no  real  apprehen- 
sion that  the  captain  would  lay  a  hand  on  me;  but  our 
situation,  living  under  a  tyranny,  with  an  ungoverned, 
swaggering  fellow  administering  it;  of  the  character  of  the 
country  we  were  in;  the  length  of  the  voyage;  the  uncer- 
tainty attending  our  return  to  America;  and  then,  if  we 
should  return,  the  prospect  of  obtaining  justice  and  satis- 
faction for  these  poor  men;  and  I  vowed  that,  if  God  should 


118  American  Literature 

ever  give  me  the  means,  I  would  do  something  to  redress* 
the  grievances  and  relieve  the  sufferings  of  that  class  of 
beings  with  whom  my  lot  had  so  long  been  cast.  .  .  . 

II.     Rev.    Samuel   F.    Smith    (1808-1895)    is    remembered 
to-day  for  his  song  America,  which  was  published  in  1832. 

America 

My  country,  'tis  of  thee, 
Sweet  land  of  Uberty, 

Of  thee  I  sing; 
Land  where  my  fathers  died, 
Land  of  the  pilgrims'  pride, 
From  every  mountain-side 

Let  freedom  ring. 

My  native  country,  thee, 
Land  of  the  noble  free, — 

Thy  name  I  love; 
I  love  thy  rocks  and  rills, 
Thy  woods  and  templed  hills; 
My  heart  with  rapture  thrills 

Like  that  above. 

Let  music  swell  the  breeze, 
And  ring  from  all  the  trees, 

Sweet  freedom's  song; 
Let  mortal  tongues  awake, 
Let  all  that  breathe  partake, 
Let  rocks  their  silence  break, — 

The  sound  prolong. 

Our  fathers'  God,  to  Thee, 
Author  of  liberty. 

To  Thee  we  sing; 
Long  may  our  land  be  bright 
With  freedom's  holy  light; 
Protect  us  by  thy  might, 

Great  God,  our  King. 


The  Early  Writers  119 


BIBLIOGRAPHY 

I.  For  Further  Illustration 

Bryant,  W.  C:  Library  of  Poetry  and  Song. 

Dana,  R.  H.,  Jr.:  Two  Years  Before  the  Mast. 

Long,  G.  W.:  American  Poems,     (i 776-1900.) 

Simms,  W.  G. :  The  Partisan. 

Stedman,  E.  C:  An  American  Anthology. 

Stedman  and  Hutchinson:  Library  of  American  Literature, 

Willis,  N.  P.:  Andre's  Request  to  Washington.     The  Torn  Hai, 

II.  For  Collateral  Reading 

Holmes,  O.  W.:    The  Boys.     (Contains  a  humorous  reference  to 

Smith's  America.) 
Lowell,  J.  R. :   Fable  for  Critics.     (On  Halleck  and  Willis.) 
Whittier,  J.  G.;  Fitz-Greene  Halleck. 


CHAPTER  IV 
WRITERS  OF  THE  MID-CENTURY  AND  AFTER 

/.     Great  Names 

The  mid-century  discovers  a  remarkable  group  of  writers 
in  New  England,  and  the  literary  centre  of  America  shifts 
from  New  York  to  Cambridge.  The  most  distinguished 
names  in  American  literature  are  found  in  this  brilliant 
group  of  New  England  authors,  and  their  achievements  so 
far  outclass  anything  else  in  the  realm  of  American  litera- 
ture before  or  since  that  the  period  of  their  activity  is  often 
called  the  golden  age  of  American  letters.  Yet  the  fact  is 
patent  that,  while  the  stature  of  these  men  assumes  noble 
proportions  when  compared  with  that  of  other  writers  na- 
tive to  American  soil,  it  does  not  measure  up  to  the  size  of 
the  great  Victorian  poets  and  prose-writers.  This  is  said 
with  no  lack  of  appreciation  for  the  positive  worth  of  the 
contribution  that  the  New  England  group  made  to  American 
literature. 

At  this  time  the  influence  of  Goethe,  Coleridge,  and  Car- 
lyle  was  dominant  in  the  works  of  our  leaders  of  culture. 
Literary  men  ''thought  and  talked  and  wrote  upon  truths 
which  cannot  be  demonstrated,  which  lie  beyond  the  sphere 
of  the  established,  which  transcend  human  experience  and 
ordinary  knowledge,"  says  Professor  Simonds.  Hence  they 
are  known  as  Transcendentalists.  Chief  among  them  was 
Ralph  Waldo  Emerson. 

I.  Ralph  Waldo  Emerson  (1803-1882)  was  bom  in  Boston 
and  educated  at  Harvard.    After  graduation  he  taught  school 

120 


Writers  of  the  Mid- Century  and  After     121 

for  a  while  and  then  studied  for  the  ministry.  He  was  or- 
dained and  given  charge  of  the  historic  Old  North  Church, 
where  the  Mathers  had  preached  in  colonial  days.  This  had 
now  become  the  most  important  pulpit  of  the  Unitarians.  But 
Emerson  could  not  agree  even  with  the  liberal  tenets  of  the 
Unitarians,  so  he  withdrew  from  the  church.  He  then  went 
abroad  for  his  health.  While  in  England  he  visited  Carlyle  with 
whom  he  formed  a  friendship  which  lasted  through  life.  On 
his  return  to  America  he  settled  in  Concord,  where  he  lived 
quietly  for  the  rest  of  his  days.  Mr.  Barrett  Wendell  asserts 
that  Emerson  was  "  by  far  the  most  eminent  figure  among  the 
Transcendentalists,  if  not,  indeed,  in  all  the  literary  history 
of  America."  Of  all  American  writers  he  is  probably  the  most 
inspiring  to  the  young.  The  bulk  of  his  writings  is  in  the  form 
of  essays,  many  of  which  were  delivered  as  lectures,  but  he 
wrote  poems  now  and  then  all  through  his  life.  Of  his  ability 
as  a  poet  he  himself  says:  "I  am  a  born  poet,  of  a  low  class, 
without  doubt,  yet  a  poet.  That  is  my  nature  and  my  voca- 
tion." Though  most  critics  agree  that  his  verse  is  too  intel- 
lectual, Stedman  calls  him  "  our  most  typical  and  inspiring 
poet."  He  had  a  genius  for  the  happy  word  and  his  essays 
teem  with  epigrams  such  as,  "Never  read  any  book  that  is  not  a 
year  old,"  "  Never  read  any  but  famed  books,"  "  Never  read  any 
but  what  you  like,"  "  Hitch  your  wagon  to  a  star,"  and  the  like. 
With  him,  most  emphatically,  the  style  is  the  man. 

(From  The  American  Scholar) 

(This  address  was  delivered  before  the  Phi  Beta  Kappa 
Society  of  Harvard,  August  31,  1837.  Holmes  calls  it 
"our  intellectual  Declaration  of  Independence,"  and 
Lowell  says:  "The  effect  produced  upon  the  audience  by 
its  delivery  was  without  any  parallel  in  our  literary  annals, 
a  scene  to  be  always  treasured  in  the  memory  for  its  pic- 
turesqueness  and  its  inspiration.") 

I.  The  first  in  time  and  the  first  in  importance  of  the 
influences  upon  the  mind  is  that  of  nature.  Every  day, 
the  sun;  and,  after  sunset,  Night  and  her  stars.  Ever  the 
winds  blow;  ever  the  grass  grows.  Every  day,  men  and 
women,  conversing,  beholding  and  beholden.     The  scholar 


122  American  Literature 

is  he  of  all  men  whom  this  spectacle  most  engages.  He 
must  settle  its  value  in  his  mind.  What  is  nature  to  him  ? 
There  is  never  a  beginning,  there  is  never  an  end,  to  the 
inexplicable  continuity  of  this  web  of  God,  but  always  cir- 
cular power  returning  into  itself.  Therein  it  resembles  his 
own  spirit,  whose  beginning,  whose  ending,  he  never  can 
find, — so  entire,  so  boundless.  Far  too  as  her  splendours 
shine,  system  on  system  shooting  Uke  rays,  upward,  down- 
ward, without  centre,  without  circumference, — ^in  the  mass 
and  in  the  particle.  Nature  hastens  to  render  account  of  her- 
self to  the  mind.  Classification  begins.  To  the  young  mind 
every  thing  is  individual,  stands  by  itself.  By  and  by,  it 
finds  how  to  join  two  things  and  see  in  them  one  nature; 
then  three,  then  three  thousand;  and  so,  tyrannized  over 
by  its  own  unifying  instinct,  it  goes  on  tying  things  together, 
diminishing  anomalies,  discovering  roots  running  under 
ground  whereby  contrary  and  remote  things  cohere  and 
flower  out  from  one  stem.  It  presently  learns  that  since 
the  dawn  of  history  there  has  been  a  constant  accumulation 
and  classifying  of  facts.  But  what  is  classification  but  the 
perceiving  that  these  objects  are  not  chaotic,  and  are  not 
foreign,  but  have  a  law  which  is  also  a  law  of  the  human 
mind?  The  astronomer  discovers  that  geometry,  a  pure 
abstraction  of  the  human  mind,  is  the  measure  of  plane- 
tary motion.  The  chemist  finds  proportions  and  intelH- 
gible  method  throughout  matter;  and  science  is  nothing 
but  the  finding  of  analogy,  identity,  in  the  most  remote 
parts.  The  ambitious  soul  sits  down  before  each  refrac- 
tory fact;  one  after  another  reduces  all  strange  constitu- 
tions, all  new  powers,  to  their  class  and  their  law,  and  goes 
on  forever  to  animate  the  last  fibre  of  organization,  the  out- 
skirts of  nature,  by  insight. 

Thus  to  him,  to  this  school-boy  under  the  bending  dome 
of  day,  is  suggested  that  he  and  it  proceed  from  one  root; 
one  is  leaf  and  one  is  flower;  relation,  sympathy,  stirring 
in  every  vein.  And  what  is  that  root?  Is  not  that  the 
soul  of  his  soul?  A  thought  too  bold;  a  dream  too  wild. 
Yet  when  this  spiritual  light  shall  have  revealed  the  law 
of  more  earthly  natures, — when  he  has  learned  to  worship 


Writers  of  the  Mid- Century  and  After     123 

the  soul,  and  to  see  that  the  natural  philosophy  that  now 
is,  is  only  the  first  gropings  of  its  gigantic  hand,  he  shall 
look  forward  to  an  ever  expanding  knowledge  as  to  a  be- 
coming creator.  He  shall  see  that  nature  is  the  opposite 
of  the  soul,  answering  to  it  part  for  part.  One  is  seal  and 
one  is  print.  Its  beauty  is  the  beauty  of  his  own  mind. 
Its  laws  are  the  laws  of  his  own  mind.  Nature  then  be- 
comes to  him  the  measure  of  his  attainments.  So  much 
of  nature  as  he  is  ignorant  of,  so  much  of  his  own  mind 
does  he  not  yet  possess.  And,  in  fine,  the  ancient  precept, 
"Know  thyself,"  and  the  modern  precept,  "Study  nature," 
become  at  last  one  maxim. 

II.  The  next  great  influence  into  the  spirit  of  the  scholar 
is  the  mind  of  the  Past, — ^in  whatever  form,  whether  of 
literature,  of  art,  of  institutions,  that  mind  is  inscribed. 
Books  are  the  best  type  of  the  influence  of  the  past,  and 
perhaps  we  shall  get  at  the  truth, — learn  the  amount  of 
this  influence  more  conveniently, — by  considering  their 
value  alone. 

The  theory  of  books  is  noble.  The  scholar  of  the  first 
age  received  into  him  the  world  around;  brooded  thereon; 
gave  it  the  new  arrangement  of  his  own  mind,  and  uttered 
it  again.  It  came  into  him  life;  it  went  out  from  him  truth. 
It  came  to  him  short-lived  actions;  it  went  out  from  him 
immortal  thoughts.  It  came  to  him  business;  it  went  from 
him  poetry.  It  was  dead  fact;  now,  it  is  quick  thought. 
It  can  stand,  and  it  can  go.  It  now  endures,  it  now  flies, 
it  now  inspires.  Precisely  in  proportion  to  the  depth  of 
mind  firom  which  it  issued,  so  high  does  it  soar,  so  long 
does  it  sing. 

Or,  I  might  say,  it  depends  on  how  far  the  process  had 
gone,  of  transmuting  life  into  truth.  In  proportion  to  the 
completeness  of  the  distillation,  so  will  the  purity  and  im- 
perishableness  of  the  product  be.  But  none  is  quite  per- 
fect. As  no  air-pump  can  by  any  means  make  a  perfect 
vacuum,  so  neither  can  any  artist  entirely  exclude  the  con- 
ventional, the  local,  the  perishable  from  his  book,  or  write 
a  book  of  pure  thought,  that  shall  be  as  efficient,  in  all  re- 
spects,  to  a  remote  posterity,   as  to  contemporaries,  or 


124  American  Literature 

rather  to  the  second  age.  Each  age,  it  is  found,  must 
write  its  own  books;  or  rather,  each  generation  for  the  next 
succeeding.     The  books  of  an  older  period  will  not  fit  this. 

Yet  hence  arises  a  grave  mischief.  The  sacredness 
which  attaches  to  the  act  of  creation,  the  act  of  thought, 
is  transferred  to  the  record.  The  poet  chanting  was  felt 
to  be  a  divine  man:  henceforth  the  chant  is  divine  also. 
The  writer  was  a  just  and  wise  spirit:  henceforward  it  is 
settled  the  book  is  perfect;  as  love  of  the  hero  corrupts 
into  worship  of  his  statue.  Instantly  the  book  becomes 
noxious:  the  guide  is  a  tyrant.  The  sluggish  and  perverted 
mind  of  the  multitude,  slow  to  open  to  the  incursions  of 
Reason,  having  once  so  opened,  having  once  received  this 
book,  stands  upon  it,  and  makes  an  outcry  if  it  is  disparaged. 
Colleges  are  built  on  it.  Books  are  written  on  it  by  think- 
ers, not  by  Man  Thinking;  by  men  of  talent,  that  is,  who 
start  wrong,  who  set  out  from  accepted  dogmas,  not  from 
their  own  sight  of  principles.  Meek  young  men  grow  up  in 
libraries,  believing  it  their  duty  to  accept  the  views  which 
Cicero,  which  Locke,  which  Bacon,  have  given;  forgetful 
that  Cicero,  Locke,  and  Bacon  were  only  young  men  in 
libraries  when  they  wrote  these  books. 

Hence,  instead  of  Man  Thinking,  we  have  the  bookworm. 
Hence  the  book-learned  class,  who  value  books,  as  such; 
not  as  related  to  nature  and  the  human  constitution,  but 
as  making  a  sort  of  Third  Estate  with  the  world  and  the 
soul.  Hence  the  restorers  of  readings,  the  emendators,  the 
bibliomaniacs  of  all  degrees. 

Books  are  the  best  of  things,  well  used;  abused,  among 
the  worst.  What  is  the  right  use?  What  is  the  one  end 
which  all  means  go  to  efifect?  They  are  for  nothing  but 
to  inspire.  I  had  better  never  see  a  book  than  to  be  warped 
by  its  attraction  clean  out  of  my  own  orbit,  and  made  a 
satellite  instead  of  a  system.  The  one  thing  in  the  world, 
of  value,  is  the  active  soul.  This  every  man  is  entitled  to; 
this  every  man  contains  within  him,  although  in  almost  all 
men  obstructed,  and  as  yet  unborn.  The  soul  active  sees 
absolute  truth  and  utters  truth,  or  creates.  In  this  action 
it  is  genius;  not  the  privilege  of  here  and  there  a  favourite, 


Writers  of  the  Mid- Century  and  After     125 

but  the  sound  estate  of  every  man.  In  its  essence  it  is 
progressive.  The  book,  the  college,  the  school  of  art,  the 
institution  of  any  kind,  stop  with  some  past  utterance  of 
genius.  This  is  good,  say  they, — let  us  hold  by  this.  They 
pin  me  down.  They  look  backward  and  not  forward.  But 
genius  looks  forward:  the  eyes  of  man  are  set  in  his  fore- 
head, not  in  his  hindhead:  man  hopes:  genius  creates. 
Whatever  talents  may  be,  if  the  man  create  not,  the  pure 
efflux  of  the  Deity  is  not  his; — cinders  and  smoke  there 
may  be,  but  not  yet  flame.  There  are  creative  manners, 
there  are  creative  actions,  and  creative  words;  manners, 
actions,  words,  that  is,  indicative  of  no  custom  or  authority, 
but  springing  spontaneous  from  the  mind's  own  sense  of 
good  and  fair. 

On  the  other  part,  instead  of  being  its  own  seer,  let  it 
receive  from  another  mind  its  truth,  though  it  were  in 
torrents  of  light,  without  periods  of  solitude,  inquest  and 
self-recovery,  and  a  fatal  disservice  is  done.  Genius  is 
always  sufficiently  the  enemy  of  genius  by  over-influence. 
The  literature  of  every  nation  bears  me  witness.  The 
English  dramatic  poets  have  Shakespearized  now  for  two 
hundred  years. 

Undoubtedly  there  is  a  right  way  of  reading,  so  it  be 
sternly  subordinated.  Man  Thinking  must  not  be  subdued 
by  his  instruments.  Books  are  for  the  scholar's  idle  times. 
When  he  can  read  God  directly,  the  hour  is  too  precious  to 
be  wasted  in  other  men's  transcripts  of  their  readings. 
But  when  the  intervals  of  darkness  come,  as  come  they 
must,— when  the  sun  is  hid  and  the  stars  withdraw  their 
shining, — we  repair  to  the  lamps  which  were  kindled  by 
their  ray,  to  guide  our  steps  to  the  East  again,  where  the 
dawn  is.  We  hear,  that  we  may  speak.  The  Arabian 
proverb  says,  ''A  fig  tree,  looking  on  a  fig  tree,  becometh 
fruitful." 

It  is  remarkable,  the  character  of  the  pleasure  we  derive 
from  the  best  books.  They  impress  us  with  the  conviction 
that  one  nature  wrote  and  the  same  reads.  We  read  the 
verses  of  one  of  the  great  English  poets,  of  Chaucer,  of 
Marvell,  of  Dryden,  with  the  most  modern  joy, — with  a 


126  American  Literature 

pleasure,  I  mean,  which  is  in  great  part  caused  by  the  ab- 
straction of  all  time  from  their  verses.  There  is  some  awe 
mixed  with  the  joy  of  our  surprise,  when  this  poet,  who 
lived  in  some  past  world,  two  or  three  hundred  years  ago, 
says  that  which  Hes  close  to  my  soul,  that  which  I  also  had 
well-nigh  thought  and  said.  But  for  the  evidence  thence 
J  afforded  to  the  philosophical  doctrine  of  the  identity  of  all 
minds,  we  should  suppose  some  pre-established  harmony, 
some  foresight  of  souls  that  were  to  be,  and  some  prepara- 
tion of  stores  for  their  future  wants,  like  the  fact  observed 
in  insects,  who  lay  up  food  before  death  for  the  young  grub 
they  shall  never  see. 


There  goes  in  the  world  a  notion  that  the  scholar  should 
be  a  recluse,  a  valetudinarian, — as  unfit  for  any  handiwork 
or  pubhc  labour  as  a  penknife  for  an  axe.  The  so-called 
*' practical  men"  sneer  at  speculative  men,  as  if ,  because 
they  speculate  or  see,  they  could  do  nothing.  I  have  heard 
it  said  that  the  clergy, — who  are  always  more  universally 
than  any  other  class,  the  scholars  of  their  day, — are  ad- 
dressed as  women;  that  the  rough  spontaneous  conversa- 
tion of  men  they  do  not  hear,  but  only  a  mincing  and  diluted 
speech.  They  are  often  virtually  disfranchised;  and  in- 
deed there  are  advocates  for  their  celibacy.  As  far  as  this 
is  true  of  the  studious  classes,  it  is  not  just  and  wise. 
Action  is  with  the  scholar  subordinate,  but  it  is  essential. 
Without  it  he  is  not  yet  man.  Without  it  thought  can 
never  ripen  into  truth.  Whilst  the  world  hangs  before 
the  eye  as  a  cloud  of  beauty,  we  cannot  even  see  its  beauty. 
Inaction  is  cowardice,  but  there  can  be  no  scholar  without 
the  heroic  mind.  The  preamble  of  thought,  the  transition 
through  which  it  passes  from  the  unconscious  to  the  con- 
scious, is  action.  Only  so  much  do  I  know,  as  I  have 
lived.  Instantly  we  know  whose  words  are  loaded  with 
life,  and  whose  not. 

The  world — this  shadow  of  the  soul,  or  other  me,  lies 
wide  around.  Its  attractions  are  the  keys  which  unlock 
my  thoughts  and  make  me  acquainted  with  myself.     I  run 


Writers  of  the  Mid- Century  and  After     127 

eagerly  into  this  resounding  tumult.  I  grasp  the  hands  of 
those  next  me,  and  take  my  place  in  the  ring  to  suffer  and 
to  work,  taught  by  an  instinct  that  so  shall  the  dumb  abyss 
be  vocal  with  speech.  ...  So  much  only  of  life  as  I  know 
by  experience,  so  much  of  the  wilderness  have  I  vanquished 
and  planted,  or  so  far  have  I  extended  my  being,  my  do- 
minion. I  do  not  see  how  any  man  can  afford,  for  the 
sake  of  his  nerves  and  his  nap,  to  spare  any  action  in 
which  he  can  partake.  It  is  pearls  and  rubies  to  his 
discourse.  Drudgery,  calamity,  exasperation,  want,  are 
instructors  in  eloquence  and  wisdom.  The  true  scholar 
grudges  every  opportunity  of  action  past  by,  as  a  loss  of 
power. 

It  is  the  raw  material  out  of  which  the  intellect  moulds 
her  splendid  products.  A  strange  process  too,  this  by 
which  experience  is  converted  into  thought,  as  a  mulberry 
leaf  is  converted  into  satin.  The  manufacture  goes  for- 
ward at  all  hours. 


Of  course,  he  who  has  put  forth  his  total  strength  in  fit 
action  has  the  richest  return  of  wisdom.  I  will  not  shut 
myself  out  of  this  globe  of  action,  and  transplant  an  oak 
into  a  flower-pot,  there  to  hunger  and  pine;  nor  trust  the 
revenue  of  some  single  faculty,  and  exhaust  one  vein  of 
thought,  much  like  those  Savoyards,  who,  getting  their 
livelihood  by  carving  shepherds,  shepherdesses,  and  smok- 
ing Dutchmen,  for  all  Europe,  went  out  one  day  to  the 
mountain  to  find  stock,  and  discovered  that  they  had  whit- 
tled up  the  last  of  their  pine-trees.  Authors  we  have,  in 
numbers,  who  have  written  out  their  vein,  and  who,  moved 
by  a  commendable  prudence,  sail  to  Greece  or  Palestine, 
follow  the  trapper  into  the  prairie,  or  ramble  round  Algiers, 
to  replenish  their  merchantable  stock. 

If  it  were  only  for  a  vocabulary,  the  scholar  would  be 
covetous  of  action.  Life  is  our  dictionary.  Years  are  well 
spent  in  country  labours;  in  town,  in  the  insight  into  trades 
and  manufactures;  in  frank  intercourse  with  many  men 
and  women;  in  science;  in  art;  to  the  one  end  of  master- 


128  American  Literature 

ing  in  all  their  facts  a  language  by  which  to  illustrate  and 
embody  our  perceptions.  I  learn  immediately  from  any 
speaker  how  much  he  has  already  lived,  through  the  pov- 
erty or  the  splendour  of  his  speech.  Life  lies  behind  us  as 
the  quarry  from  whence  we  get  tiles  and  cope-stones  for 
the  masonry  of  to-day.  This  is  the  way  to  learn  grammar. 
Colleges  and  books  only  copy  the  language  which  the  field 
and  the  work-yard  made. 

But  the  final  value  of  action,  like  that  of  books,  and 
better  than  books,  is,  that  it  is  a  resource.  .  .  . 

The  mind  now  thinks,  now  acts;  and  each  fit  reproduces 
the  other.  When  the  artist  has  exhausted  his  materials, 
when  the  fancy  no  longer  paints,  when  thoughts  are  no 
longer  apprehended  and  books  are  a  weariness, — he  has 
always  the  resource  to  live.  Character  is  higher  than  in- 
tellect. Thinking  is  the  function.  Living  is  the  function- 
ary. The  stream  retreats  to  its  source.  A  great  soul 
will  be  strong  to  Hve,  as  well  as  strong  to  think.  Does  he 
lack  organ  or  medium  to  impart  his  truths?  He  can  still 
fall  back  on  this  elemental  force  of  living  them.  This  is  a 
total  act.  Thinking  is  a  partial  act.  Let  the  grandeur  of 
justice  shine  in  his  affairs.  Let  the  beauty  of  affection 
cheer  his  lowly  roof.  Those  "far  from  fame,"  who  dwell 
and  act  with  him,  will  feel  the  force  of  his  constitution  in 
the  doings  and  passages  of  the  day  better  than  it  can  be 
measured  by  any  public  and  designed  display.  Time  shall 
teach  him  that  the  scholar  loses  no  hour  which  the  man 
lives.  Herein  he  unfolds  the  sacred  germ  of  his  instinct, 
screened  from  influence.  What  is  lost  in  seemliness  is 
gained  in  strength.  Not  out  of  those  on  whom  systems  of 
education  have  exhausted  their  culture,  comes  the  helpful 
giant  to  destroy  the  old  or  to  build  the  new,  but  out  of  un- 
handselled  savage  nature;  out  of  terrible  Druids  and  Ber- 
serkers come  at  last  Alfred  and  Shakespeare. 

I  hear,  therefore,  with  joy  whatever  is  beginning  to  be 
said  of  the  dignity  and  necessity  of  labour  to  every  citizen. 
There  is  virtue  yet  in  the  hoe  and  the  spade,  for  learned  as 
well  as  for  unlearned  hands.  And  labour  is  everywhere 
welcome;    always  we  are  invited  to  work;    only  be  this 


Writers  of  the  Mid- Century  and  After     129 

limitation  observed,  that  a  man  shall  not  for  the  sake  of 
wider  activity  sacrifice  any  opinion  to  the  popular  judgments 
and  modes  of  action. 


Concord  Hymn 


APRIL  19,  1836 

By  the  rude  bridge  that  arched  the  flood, 
Their  flag  to  April's  breeze  unfurled, 

Here  once  the  embattled  farmers  stood, 
And  fired  the  shot  heard  round  the  world. 

The  foe  long  since  in  silence  slept; 

Alike  the  conqueror  silent  sleeps; 
And  Time  the  ruined  bridge  has  swept 

Down  the  dark  stream  which  seaward  creeps. 

On  this  green  bank,  by  this  soft  stream, 

We  set  to-day  a  votive  stone; 
That  memory  may  their  deed  redeem, 

When,  Hke  our  sires,  our  sons  are  gone. 

Spirit,  that  made  those  heroes  dare 
To  die,  and  leave  their  children  free. 

Bid  Time  and  Nature  gently  spare 
The  shaft  we  raise  to  them  and  thee. 


Each  and  All 

Little  thinks,  in  the  field,  yon  red-cloaked  clown, 

Of  thee  from  the  hill- top  looking  down; 

The  heifer,  that  lows  in  the  upland  farm, 

Far-heard,  lows  not  thine  ear  to  charm; 

The  sexton  tolling  the  bell  at  noon, 

Dreams  not  that  great  Napoleon 

Stops  his  horse,  and  Hsts  with  delight. 

Whilst  his  files  sweep  round  yon  Alpine  height; 


130  American  Literature 

Nor  knowest  thou  what  argument 
Thy  life  to  thy  neighbor's  creed  has  lent: 
All  are  needed  by  each  one, 
Nothing  is  fair  or  good  alone. 

I  thought  the  sparrow's  note  from  heaven, 

Singing  at  dawn  on  the  alder  bough; 

I  brought  him  home  in  his  nest  at  even; 

He  sings  the  song,  but  it  pleases  not  now; 

For  I  did  not  bring  home  the  river  and  sky; 

He  sang  to  my  ear;  they  sang  to  my  eye. 

The  deUcate  shells  lay  on  the  shore; 

The  bubbles  of  the  latest  wave 

Fresh  pearls  to  their  enamel  gave; 

And  the  bellowing  of  the  savage  sea 

Greeted  their  safe  escape  to  me; 

I  wiped  away  the  weeds  and  foam, 

I  fetched  my  sea-born  treasures  home; 

But  the  poor,  unsightly,  noisome  things 

Had  left  their  beauty  on  the  shore 

With  the  sun  and  the  sand  and  the  wild  uproar. 

The  lover  watched  his  graceful  maid 

As  'mid  the  virgin  train  she  strayed, 

Nor  knew  her  beauty's  best  attire 

Was  woven  still  by  the  snow-white  quire, 

At  last  she  came  to  his  hermitage, 

Like  the  bird  from  the  woodlands  to  the  cage, 

The  gay  enchantment  was  undone, 

A  gentle  wife,  but  fairy  none. 

Then  I  said,  ''I  covet  Truth; 

Beauty  is  unripe  childhood's  cheat, — 

I  leave  it  behind  with  the  games  of  youth." 

As  I  spoke,  beneath  my  feet 

The  ground-pine  curled  its  pretty  wreath, 

Running  over  the  club-moss  burrs; 

I  inhaled  the  violet's  breath; 

Around  me  stood  the  oaks  and  firs; 

Pine-cones  and  acorns  lay  on  the  ground; 


Writers  of  the  Mid- Century  and  After     131 

Above  me  soared  the  eternal  sky, 

Full  of  light  and  of  deity; 

Again  I  saw,  again  I  heard, 

The  rolHng  river,  the  morning  bird; — 

Beauty  through  my  senses  stole, 

I  yielded  myself  to  the  perfect  whole. 

2.  Henry  D.  Thoreau  (1817-1862)  was  a  Harvard  graduate 
who  became  famous  for  his  semipoetic,  semiscientific  studies 
of  nature.  A  devoted  lover  of  the  open,  he  lived  the  simple 
life  alone  for  two  years  in  a  cabin  which  he  built  himself  on  the 
shore  of  Walden  Pond.  The  careful  observations  which  he 
made  while  living  there  form  the  subject-matter  of  Walden,  his 
'most  important  contribution  to  American  letters. 

The  Battle  of  the  Ants 

(From  Walden,  chapter  XII,  "Brute  Neighbors") 

One  day  when  I  went  out  to  my  wood-pile,  or  rather  my 
pile  of  stumps,  I  observed  two  large  ants,  the  one  red, 
the  other  much  larger,  nearly  half  an  inch  long,  and  black, 
fiercely  contending  with  one  another.  Having  once  got 
hold  they  never  let  go,  but  struggled  and  wrestled  and 
rolled  on  the  chips  incessantly.  Looking  farther,  I  was 
surprised  to  find  that  the  chips  were  covered  with  such 
combatants,  that  it  was  not  a  duellum,  but  a  helium,  a  war 
between  two  races  of  ants,  the  red  always  pitted  against 
the  black,  and  frequently  two  red  ones  to  one  black.  The 
legions  of  these  Myrmidons  covered  all  the  hills  and  vales 
in  my  wood-yard,  and  the  ground  was  already  strewn 
with  the  dead  and  dying,  both  red  and  black.  It  was  the 
only  battle  which  I  have  ever  witnessed,  the  only  battle- 
field I  ever  trod  while  the  battle  was  raging;  internecine 
war;  the  red  repubhcans  on  the  one  hand,  and  the  black 
imperialists  on  the  other.  On  every  side  they  were  en- 
gaged in  deadly  combat,  yet  without  any  noise  that  I 
could  hear,  and  humi^n  soldiers  never  fought  so  resolutely. 
I  watched  a  couple  that  were  fast  locked  in  each  other's 
embraces,  in  a  Uttle  sunny  valley  amid  the  chips,  now  at 
noon-day  prepared  to  fight  till  the  sun  went  down,  or  life 


132  American  Literature 

went  out.  The  smaller  red  champion  had  fastened  him- 
self like  a  vice  to  his  adversary's  front,  and  through  all  the 
tumblings  on  that  field  never  for  an  instant  ceased  to 
gnaw  at  one  of  his  feelers  near  the  root,  having  already 
caused  the  other  to  go  by  the  board;  while  the  stronger 
black  one  dashed  him  from  side  to  side,  and,  as  I  saw  on 
looking,  had  already  divested  him  of  several  of  his  mem- 
bers. They  fought  with  more  pertinacity  than  bull-dogs. 
Neither  manifested  the  least  disposition  to  retreat.  It 
was  evident  that  their  battle-cry  was  Conquer  or  die.  In 
the  mean  while  there  came  along  a  single  red  ant  on  the 
hill-side  of  this  valley,  evidently  full  of  excitement,  who 
either  had  despatched  his  foe,  or  had  not  yet  taken  part  in 
the  battle;  probably  the  latter,  for  he  had  lost  none  of  his 
limbs;  whose  mother  had  charged  him  to  return  with  his 
shield  or  upon  it.  Or  perchance  he  was  some  Achilles, 
who  had  nourished  his  wrath  apart,  and  had  now  come  to 
avenge  or  rescue  his  Patroclus.  He  saw  this  unequal 
combat  from  afar, — for  the  blacks  were  nearly  twice  the 
size  of  the  reds, — he  drew  near  with  rapid  pace  till  he 
stood  on  his  guard  within  half  an  inch  of  the  combatants; 
then,  watching  his  opportunity,  he  sprang  upon  the  black 
warrior,  and  commenced  his  operations  near  the  root  of 
his  right  fore-leg,  leaving  the  foe  to  select  among  his  own 
members;  and  so  there  were  three  united  for  life,  as  if  a 
new  kind  of  attraction  had  been  invented  which  put  all 
other  locks  and  cements  to  shame.  I  should  not  have 
wondered  by  this  time  to  find  that  they  had  their  respec- 
tive musical  bands  stationed  on  some  eminent  chip,  and 
pla3dng  their  national  airs  the  while,  to  excite  the  slow  and 
cheer  the  dying  combatants.  I  was  myself  excited  some- 
what even  as  if  they  had  been  men.  The  more  you  think 
of  it,  the  less  the  difference.  And  certainly  there  is  not 
the  fight  recorded  in  Concord  history,  at  least,  if  in  the 
history  of  America,  that  will  bear  a  moment's  comparison 
with  this,  whether  for  the  numbers  engaged  in  it,  or  for  the 
patriotism  and  heroism  displayed.  For  numbers  and  for 
carnage  it  was  an  AusterUtz  or  Dresden.  Concord  Fight ! 
Two  killed  on  the  patriot's  side,  and  Luther  Blanchard 


Writers  of  the  Mid- Century  and  After     133 

wounded!  Why  here  every  ant  was  a  Buttrick, — "Fire! 
for  God's  sake,  fire!" — and  thousands  shared  the  fate  of 
Davis  and  Hosmer.  There  was  not  one  hireling  there.  I 
have  no  doubt  that  it  was  a  principle  they  fought  for,  as 
much  as  our  ancestors,  and  not  to  avoid  a  three-penny  tax 
on  their  tea;  and  the  results  of  this  battle  will  be  as  impor- 
tant and  memorable  to  those  whom  it  concerns  as  those  of 
the  battle  of  Bunker  Hill,  at  least. 

I  took  up  the  chip  on  which  the  three  I  have  partic- 
ularly described  were  struggling,  carried  it  into  my  house, 
and  placed  it  under  a  tumbler  on  my  window-sill,  in  order  to 
see  the  issue.  Holding  a  microscope  to  the  first-mentioned 
red  ant,  I  saw  that,  though  he  was  assiduously  gnawing 
at  the  near  fore-leg  of  his  enemy,  having  severed  his  re- 
maining feeler,  his  own  breast  was  all  torn  away,  exposing 
what  vitals  he  had  there  to  the  jaws  of  the  black  warrior, 
whose  breast-plate  was  apparently  too  thick  for  him  to 
pierce;  and  the  dark  carbuncles  of  the  sufferer's  eyes 
shone  with  ferocity  such  as  war  only  could  excite.  They 
struggled  half  an  hour  longer  under  the  tumbler,  and  when 
I  looked  again  the  black  soldier  had  severed  the  heads  of 
his  foes  from  their  bodies,  and  the  still  living  heads  were 
hanging  on  either  side  of  him  like  ghastly  trophies  at  his 
saddle-bow,  still  apparently  as  firmly  fastened  as  ever,  and 
he  was  endeavoring  with  feeble  struggles,  being  without 
feelers  and  with  only  the  remnant  of  a  leg,  and  I  know 
not  how  many  other  wounds,  to  divest  himself  of  them; 
which  at  length,  after  half  an  hour  more,  he  accomplished. 
I  raised  the  glass,  and  he  went  off  over  the  window-sill 
in  that  crippled  state.  Whether  he  finally  survived  that 
combat,  and  spent  the  remainder  of  his  days  in  some 
Hotel  des  Invalides,  I  do  not  know;  but  I  thought  that  his 
industry  would  not  be  worth  much  thereafter.  I  never 
learned  which  party  was  victorious,  nor  the  cause  of  the 
war;  but  I  felt  for  the  rest  of  that  day  as  if  I  had  had  my 
feelings  excited  and  harrowed  by  witnessing  the  struggle, 
the  ferocity  and  carnage,  of  a  human  battle  before  my  door. 

3.  Nathaniel  Hawthorne  (1804-1864)  is  ''the  most  com- 
manding figure  that  America  has  produced  in  the  field  of  ro- 


134  American  Literature 

mance"  according  to  Professor  Simonds.  He  was  a  graduate 
of  Bowdoin  College  and  lived  much  of  his  life  at  Concord  and 
Salem.  By  nature  he  was  a  recluse;  "  his  soul  was  like  a  star 
and  dwelt  apart."  "  Beyond  any  one  else,"  says  Professor 
Barrett  Wendell,  "  he  expresses  the  deepest  temper  of  that  New 
England  race  which  brought  him  forth,  and  which  now,  at  least 
in  the  phases  we  have  known,  seems  vanishing  from  the  earth." 
Mr.  Henry  James  declares  The  Scarlet  Letter  to  be  "the  finest 
piece  of  imaginative  writing  yet  put  forth  in  this  country." 
And  by  some  critics  Hawthorne's  style  is  considered  superior  to 
that  of  all  other  American  writers  of  fiction. 

The  Ambitious  Guest 
(From  Twice  Told  Tales) 

One  September  night,  a  family  had  gathered  round  their 
hearth,  and  piled  it  high  with  the  drift-wood  of  mountain 
streams,  the  dry  cones  of  the  pine,  and  the  splintered  ruins 
of  great  trees,  that  had  come  crashing  down  the  precipice. 
Up  the  chimney  roared  the  fire,  and  brightened  the  room 
with  its  broad  blaze.  The  faces  of  the  father  and  mother 
had  a  sober  gladness;  the  children  laughed;  the  eldest 
daughter  was  the  image  of  Happiness  at  seventeen;  and 
the  aged  grandmother,  who  sat  knitting  in  the  warmest 
place,  was  the  image  of  Happiness  grown  old.  They  had 
found  the  ''herb,  heart's-ease,"  in  the  bleakest  spot  of  all 
New  England.  This  family  were  situated  in  the  Notch  of 
the  White  Hills,  where  the  wind  was  sharp  throughout  the 
year,  and  pitilessly  cold  in  the  winter, — giving  their  cot- 
tage all  its  fresh  inclemency,  before  it  descended  on  the 
valley  of  the  Saco.  They  dwelt  in  a  cold  spot  and  a  dan- 
gerous one;  for  a  mountain  towered  above  their  heads, 
so  steep,  that  the  stones  would  often  rumble  down  its 
sides,  and  startle  them  at  midnight. 

The  daughter  had  just  uttered  some  simple  jest,  that 
filled  them  all  with  mirth,  when  the  wind  came  through 
the  Notch  and  seemed  to  pause  before  their  cottage, — 
rattling  the  door,  with  a  sound  of  wailing  and  lamentation, 
before  it  passed  into  the  valley.  For  a  moment,  it  sad- 
dened them,  though  there  was  nothing  unusual  in  the 
tones.     But  the  family  were  glad  again,  when  they  per- 


"--1 


Writers  of  the  Mid- Century  and  After     135 

ceived  that  the  latch  was  lifted  by  some  traveller,  whose 
footsteps  had  been  unheard  amid  the  dreary  blast,  which 
heralded  his  approach,  and  wailed  as  he  was  entering,  and 
went  moaning  away  from  the  door. 


The  door  was  opened  by  a  young  man.  His  face  at  first 
wore  the  melancholy  expression,  almost  despondency,  of 
one  who  travels  a  wild  and  bleak  road,  at  nightfall  and 
alone,  but  soon  brightened  up,  when  he  saw  the  kindly 
warmth  of  his  reception.  He  felt  his  heart  spring  forward 
to  meet  them  all,  from  the  old  woman,  who  wiped  a  chair 
with  her  apron,  to  the  Kttle  child  that  held  out  its  arms  to 
him.  One  glance  and  smile  placed  the  stranger  on  a  foot- 
ing of  innocent  famiharity  with  the  eldest  daughter. 

"Ah,  this  fire  is  the  right  thing!"  <cried  he;  "especially 
when  there  is  such  a  pleasant  circle  round  it.  I  am  quite 
benumbed;  for  the  Notch  is  just  like  the  pipe  of  a  great 
pair  of  bellows;  it  has  blown  a  terrible  blast  in  my  face, 
all  the  way  from  Bartlett." 

"Then  you  are  going  towards  Vermont?"  said  the  mas- 
ter of  the  house,  as  he  helped  to  take  a  light  knapsack  off 
the  young  man's  shoulders. 

"Yes;  to  Burlington,  and  far  enough  beyond,"  replied 
he.  "I  meant  to  have  been  at  Ethan  Crawford's  to-night; 
but  a  pedestrian  lingers  along  such  a  road  as  this.  It  is 
no  matter;  for,  when  I  saw  this  good  fire,  and  all  your 
cheerful  faces,  I  felt  as  if  you  had  kindled  it  on  purpose  for 
me,  and  were  waiting  my  arrival.  So  I  shall  sit  down 
among  you,  and  make  myself  at  home." 

The  frank-hearted  stranger  had  just  drawn  his  chair  to 
the  fire,  when  something  like  a  heavy  footstep  was  heard 
without,  rushing  down  the  steep  side  of  the  mountain,  as 
with  long  and  rapid  strides,  and  taking  such  a  leap,  in 
passing  the  cottage,  as  to  strike  the  opposite  precipice. 
The  family  held  their  breath,  because  they  knew  the  soimd, 
and  their  guest  held  his,  by  instinct. 

"The  old  mountain  has  thrown  a  stone  at  us,  for  fear 
we  should  forget  him,"  said  the  landlord,  recovering  him- 
self.    "He  sometimes  nods  his  head,  and  threatens  to  come 


136  American  Literature 

down;  but  we  are  old  neighbors,  and  agree  together  pretty 
well,  upon  the  whole.  Besides,  we  have  a  sure  place  of 
refuge,  hard  by,  if  he  should  be  coming  in  good  earnest." 

.  .  .  [The  stranger]  was  of  a  proud,  yet  gentle  spirit, — 
haughty  and  reserved  among  the  rich  and  great;  but  ever 
ready  to  stoop  his  head  to  the  lowly  cottage  door,  and  be 
Hke  a  brother  or  a  son  at  the  poor  man's  fireside.  .  .  . 
But,  this  evening,  a  prophetic  sympathy  impelled  the 
refined  and  educated  youth  to  pour  out  his  heart  before  the 
simple  mountaineers,  and  constrained  them  to  answer  him 
with  the  same  free  confidence.  And  thus  it  should  have 
been.  Is  not  the  kindred  of  a  common  fate  a  closer  tie 
than  that  of  birth  ? 

The  secret  of  the  young  man's  character  was  a  high  and 
abstracted  ambition.  He  could  have  borne  to  live  an 
undistinguished  fife,  but  not  to  be  forgotten  in  the  grave. 
Yearning  desire  had  been  transformed  to  hope;  and  hope, 
long  cherished,  had  become  like  certainty,  that,  obscurely 
as  he  journeyed  now,  a  glory  was  to  beam  on  all  his  path- 
way,— though  not,  perhaps,  while  he  was  treading  it. 
But,  when  posterity  should  gaze  back  into  the  gloom  of 
what  was  now  the  present,  they  would  trace  the  brightness 
of  his  footsteps,  brightening  as  meaner  glories  faded,  and 
confess,  that  a  gifted  one  had  passed  from  his  cradle  to 
his  tomb,  with  none  to  recognize  him. 

"As  yet,"  cried  the  stranger,  his  cheek  glowing  and  his 
eyes  flashing  with  enthusiasm, — "as  yet,  I  have  done 
nothing.  Were  I  to  vanish  from  the  earth  to-morrow, 
none  would  know  so  much  of  me  as  you;  that  a  nameless 
youth  came  up,  at  nightfall,  from  the  valley  of  the  Saco, 
and  opened  his  heart  to  you  in  the  evening,  and  passed 
through  the  Notch,  by  sunrise,  and  was  seen  no  more. 
Not  a  soul  would  ask,  'Who  was  he?  Whither  did  the 
wanderer  go?'  But  I  cannot  die  till  I  have  achieved 
my  destiny.  Then  let  Death  come!  I  shall  have  built 
my  monument!" 


"You  laugh  at  me,"  said  he,  taking  the  eldest  daughter's 
hand,  and  laughing  himself.     "You  think  my  ambition  as 


Writers  of  the  Mid- Century  and  After     137 

nonsensical  as  if  I  were  to  freeze  myself  to  death  on  the  top 
of  Mount  Washington,  only  that  people  might  spy  at  me 
from  the  country  round  about.  And  truly,  that  would  be 
a  noble  pedestal  for  a  man's  statue  ! " 

*'It  is  better  to  sit  here  by  this  fire,"  answered  the  girl, 
blushing,  '^and  be  comfortable  and  contented,  though 
nobody  thinks  about  us." 

*'I  suppose,"  said  her  father,  after  a  fit  of  musing,  ^' there 
is  something  natural  in  what  the  young  man  says;  and  if 
my  mind  had  been  turned  that  way,  I  might  have  felt  just 
the  same.  It  is  strange,  wife,  how  his  talk  has  set  my  head 
running  on  things  that  are  pretty  certain  never  to  come  to 
pass." 

"Perhaps  they  may,"  observed  the  wife.  "Is  the  man 
thinking  what  he  will  do  when  he  is  a  widower?" 

"No,  no!"  cried  he,  repelling  the  idea  with  reproachful 
kindness.  "When  I  think  of  your  death,  Esther,  I  think 
of  mine,  too.  But  I  was  wishing  we  had  a  good  farm  in 
Bartlett,  or  Bethlehem,  or  Littleton,  or  some  other  town- 
ship round  the  White  Mountains;  but  not  where  they 
could  tumble  on  our  heads.  I  should  want  to  stand  well 
with  my  neighbors,  and  be  called  Squire,  and  sent  to  Gen- 
eral Court  for  a  termor  two;  for  a  plain, honest  man  may 
do  as  much  good  there  as  a  lawyer.  And  when  I  should 
be  grown  quite  an  old  man,  and  you  an  old  woman,  so  as 
not  to  be  long  apart,  I  might  die  happy  enough  in  my  bed, 
and  leave  you  all  crying  around  me.  A  slate  gravestone 
would  suit  me  as  well  as  a  marble  one, — with  just  my  name 
and  age,  and  a  verse  of  a  hymn,  and  something  to  let  peo- 
ple know  that  I  lived  an  honest  man  and  died  a  Christian." 

"There  now !"  exclaimed  the  stranger;  "it  is  our  nature 
to  desire  a  monument,  be  it  slate,  or  marble,  or  a  pillar  of 
granite,  or  a  glorious  memory  in  the  universal  heart  of 
man." 

"We're  in  a  strange  way,  to-night,"  said  the  wife,  with 
tears  in  her  eyes.  "They  say  it's  a  sign  of  something, 
when  folks'  minds  go  a-wandering  so.  Hark  to  the  chil- 
dren!" 

They  listened  accordingly.  ...  At  length,  a  little  boy, 


138  ATnerican  Literature 

instead  of  addressing  his  brothers  and  sisters,  called  out  to 
his  mother. 

"I'll  tell  you  what  I  wish,  mother,"  cried  he.  ''I  want 
you  and  father  and  grandma'm,  and  all  of  us,  and  the 
stranger  too,  to  start  right  away,  and  go  and  take  a  drink 
out  of  the  basin  of  the  Flume !" 

Nobody  could  help  laughing  at  the  child's  notion  of 
leaving  a  warm  bed,  and  dragging  them  from  a  cheerful 
fire,  to  visit  the  basin  of  the  Flume, — a  brook  which  tum- 
bles over  the  precipice,  deep  within  the  Notch.  The  boy 
had  hardly  spoken,  when  a  wagon  rattled  along  the  road, 
and  stopped  a  moment  before  the  door.  .  .  . 

''Father,"  said  the  girl,  *'they  are  calling  you  by  name." 

But  the  good  man  doubted  whether  they  had  really 
called  him,  and  was  unwilling  to  show  himself  too  soUc- 
itous  of  gain,  by  inviting  people  to  patronize  his  house. 
He  therefore  did  not  hurry  to  the  door;  and  the  lash  being 
soon  applied,  the  travellers  plunged  into  the  Notch,  still 
singing  and  laughing,  though  their  music  and  mirth  came 
back  drearily  from  the  heart  of  the  mountain. 

''There,  mother!"  cried  the  boy  again,  "they'd  have 
given  us  a  ride  to  the  Flume." 

Again  they  laughed  at  the  child's  pertinacious  fancy  for 
a  night  ramble.  But  it  happened  that  a  light  cloud  passed 
over  the  daughter's  spirit;  she  looked  gravely  into  the 
fire,  and  drew  a  breath  that  was  almost  a  sigh.  It  forced 
its  way,  in  spite  of  a  little  struggle  to  repress  it.  Then, 
starting  and  blushing,  she  looked  quickly  round  the  cir- 
cle, as  if  they  had  caught  a  glimpse  into  her  bosom.  The 
stranger  asked  what  she  had  been  thinking  of. 

' '  Nothing, ' '  answered  she,  with  a  downcast  smile.  ' '  Only 
I  felt  lonesome  just  then." 

"O,  I  have  always  had  a  gift  of  feehng  what  is  in  other 
people's  hearts!"  said  he,  half  seriously.  "Shall  I  tell  the 
secrets  of  yours?  For  I  know  what  to  think,  when  a 
young  girl  shivers  by  a  warm  hearth,  and  complains  of 
lonesomeness  at  her  mother's  side.  Shall  I  put  these  feel- 
ings into  words?" 

"They  would  not  be  a  girl's  feelings  any  longer,  if  they 


Writers  of  the  Mid- Century  and  After     139 

could  be  put  into  words,"  replied  the  mountain  nymph, 
laughing,  but  avoiding  his  eye. 

All  this  was  said  apart.  .  .  .  But,  while  they  spoke 
softly,  and  he  was  watching  the  happy  sadness,  the  light- 
some shadows,  the  shy  yearnings  of  a  maiden's  nature,  the 
wind  through  the  Notch  took  a  deeper  and  drearier  sound. 
It  seemed,  as  the  fanciful  stranger  said,  Kke  the  choral 
strain  of  the  spirits  of  the  blast,  who,  in  old  Indian  times, 
had  their  dwelling  among  these  mountains,  and  made  their 
heights  and  recesses  a  sacred  region.  There  was  a  wail, 
along  the  road,  as  if  a  funeral  were  passing.  To  chase 
away  the  gloom,  the  family  threw  pine  branches  on  their 
fire,  till  the  dry  leaves  crackled  and  the  flame  arose,  dis- 
covering once  again  a  scene  of  peace  and  humble  happi- 
ness. The  light  hovered  about  them  fondly,  and  caressed 
them  all.  There  were  the  Httle  faces  of  the  children,  peep- 
ing from  their  bed  apart,  and  here  the  father's  frame  of 
strength,  the  mother's  subdued  and  careful  mien,  the 
high-browed  youth,  the  budding  girl,  and  the  good  old 
grandam,  still  knitting  in  the  warmest  place.  The  aged 
woman  looked  up  from  her  task,  and  with  fingers  ever  busy, 
was  the  next  to  speak. 

"Old  folks  have  their  notions,"  said  she,  "as  well  as 
young  ones.  You've  been  wishing  and  planning  and  letting 
your  heads  run  on  one  thing  and  another,  till  you've  set  my 
mind  a- wandering  too.  Now  what  should  an  old  woman 
wish  for,  when  she  can  go  but  a  step  or  two  before  she  comes 
to  her  grave  ?  Children,  it  will  haunt  me  night  and  day  till 
I  tell  you." 

"What  is  it,  mother?"  cried  the  husband  and  wife,  at 
once. 


"I  want  one  of  you,  my  children, — when  your  mother 
is  dressed  and  in  her  coffin, — I  want  one  of  you  to  hold  a 
looking-glass  over  my  face.  Who  knows  but  I  may  take 
a  gHmpse  at  myself,  and  see  whether  all's  right?" 

"Old  and  young,  we  dream  of  graves  and  monuments," 
murmured  the  stranger  youth.     "I  wonder  how  mariners 


140  American  Literature 

feel,  when  the  ship  is  sinking,  and  they,  unknown  and  un- 
distinguished, are  to  be  buried  together  in  the  ocean, — 
that  wide  and  nameless  sepulchre?" 

For  a  moment,  the  old  woman's  ghastly  conception  so 
engrossed  the  minds  of  her  hearers,  that  a  sound  abroad 
in  the  night,  rising  like  the  roar  of  a  blast,  had  grown 
broad,  deep,  and  terrible,  before  the  fated  group  were 
conscious  of  it.  The  house,  and  all  within  it,  trembled; 
the  foundations  of  the  earth  seemed  to  be  shaken,  as  if 
this  awful  sound  were  the  peal  of  the  last  trump.  Young 
and  old  exchanged  one  wild  glance,  and  remained  an  in- 
stant, pale,  affrighted,  without  utterance,  or  power  to 
move.  Then  the  same  shriek  burst  simultaneously  from 
all  their  lips. 

*' The  Slide!    The  Slide!" 

The  simplest  words  must  intimate,  but  not  portray,  the 
unutterable  horror  of  the  catastrophe.  The  victims  rushed 
from  their  cottage  and  sought  refuge  in  what  they  deemed  a 
safer  spot, — where,  in  contemplation  of  such  an  emergency, 
a  sort  of  barrier  had  been  reared.  Alas !  they  had  quitted 
their  security,  and  fled  right  into  the  pathway  of  destruc- 
tion. Down  came  the  whole  side  of  the  mountain,  in  a 
cataract  of  ruin.  Just  before  it  reached  the  house,  the 
stream  broke  into  two  branches, — shivered  not  a  window 
there,  but  overwhelmed  the  whole  vicinity,  blocked  up 
the  road,  and  annihilated  everything  in  its  dreadful  course. 
Long  ere  the  thunder  of  that  great  Slide  had  ceased  to  roar 
among  the  mountains,  the  mortal  agony  had  been  endured, 
and  the  victims  were  at  peace.  Their  bodies  were  never 
found. 


The  Toll-Gatherer's  Day 

a  sketch  of  transitory  life 

Methinks,  for  a  person  whose  instinct  bids  him  rather 
to  pore  over  the  current  of  life,  than  to  plunge  into  its 
tumultuous  waves,  no  undesirable  retreat  were  a  toll-house 
beside  some  thronged  thoroughfare  of  the  land.     In  youth, 


Writers  of  the  Mid- Century  and  After     141 

perhaps,  it  is  good  for  the  observer  to  run  about  the  earth, 
— to  leave  the  track  of  his  footsteps  far  and  wide, — to 
mingle  himself  with  the  action  of  numberless  vicissitudes, 
— and,  finally,  in  some  calm  solitude,  to  feed  a  musing 
spirit  on  all  that  he  has  seen  and  felt.  But  there  are  na- 
tures too  indolent,  or  too  sensitive,  to  endure  the  dust,  the 
sunshine,  or  the  rain,  the  turmoil  of  moral  and  physical 
elements,  to  which  all  the  wayfarers  of  the  world  expose 
themselves.  For  such  a  man,  how  pleasant  a  miracle, 
could  life  be  made  to  roll  its  variegated  length  by  the 
threshold  of  his  own  hermitage,  and  the  great  globe,  as  it 
were,  perform  its  revolutions  and  shift  its  thousand  scenes 
before  his  eyes  without  whirKng  him  onward  in  its  course. 
If  any  mortal  be  favored  with  a  lot  analogous  to  this,  it  is 
the  toll-gatherer.  So,  at  least,  have  I  often  fancied,  while 
lounging  on  a  bench  at  the  door  of  a  small  square  edifice, 
which  stands  between  shore  and  shore  in  the  midst  of  a 
long  bridge.  Beneath  the  timbers  ebbs  and  flows  an  arm 
of  the  sea;  while  above,  like  the  life-blood  through  a  great 
artery,  the  travel  of  the  north  and  east  is  continually 
throbbing.  Sitting  on  the  aforesaid  bench,  I  amuse  my- 
self with  a  conception,  illustrated  by  numerous  pencil- 
sketches  in  the  air,  of  the  toll-gatherer's  day. 

In  the  morning — dim,  gray,  dewy  summer's  morn — the 
distant  roll  of  ponderous  wheels  begins  to  mingle  with  my 
old  friend's  slumbers,  creaking  more  and  more  harshly 
through  the  midst  of  his  dream,  and  gradually  replacing 
it  with  realities.  Hardly  conscious  of  the  change  from 
sleep  to  wakefulness,  he  finds  himself  partly  clad  and 
throwing  wide  the  toll-gates  for  the  passage  of  a  fragrant 
load  of  hay.  The  timbers  groan  beneath  the  slow-revolv- 
ing wheels;  one  sturdy  yeoman  stalks  beside  the  oxen, 
and,  peering  from  the  summit  of  the  hay,  by  the  glimmer 
of  the  half-extinguished  lantern  over  the  toll-house,  is 
seen  the  drowsy  visage  of  his  comrade,  who  has  enjoyed  a 
nap  some  ten  miles  long.  The  toll  is  paid, — creak,  creak, 
again  go  the  wheels,  and  the  huge  hay-mow  vanishes  into 
the  morning  mist.  As  yet,  nature  is  but  half  awake,  and 
familiar  objects  appear  visionary.     But  yonder,  dashing 


142  American  Literature 

from  the  shore  with  a  rattling  thunder  of  the  wheels  and  a 
confused  clatter  of  hoofs,  comes  the  never-tiring  mail, 
which  has  hurried  onward  at  the  same  headlong,  restless 
rate,  all  through  the  quiet  night.  The  bridge  resounds 
in  one  continued  peal  as  the  coach  rolls  on  without  a  pause, 
merely  affording  the  toll-gatherer  a  ghmpse  at  the  sleepy 
passengers,  who  now  bestir  their  torpid  Umbs,  and  snuff 
a  cordial  in  the  briny  air.  The  morn  breathes  upon  them 
and  blushes,  and  they  forget  how  wearily  the  darkness 
toiled  away.  And  behold  now  the  fervid  day,  in  his  bright 
chariot,  glittering  aslant  over  the  waves,  nor  scorning  to 
throw  a  tribute  of  his  golden  beams  on  the  toll-gatherer's 
little  hermitage.  The  old  man  looks  eastward,  and  (for 
he  is  a  moralizer)  frames  a  simile  of  the  stage-coach  and 
the  sun. 

While  the  world  is  rousing  itself,  we  may  glance  slightly 
at  the  scene  of  our  sketch.  It  sits  above  the  bosom  of  the 
broad  flood,  a  spot  not  of  earth,  but  in  the  midst  of  waters, 
which  rush  with  a  murmuring  sound  among  the  massive 
beams  beneath.  Over  the  door  is  a  weather-beaten  board, 
inscribed  with  the  rates  of  toll,  in  letters  so  nearly  effaced 
that  the  gilding  of  the  sunshine  can  hardly  make  them 
legible.  Beneath  the  window  is  a  wooden  bench,  on  which 
a  long  succession  of  weary  wayfarers  have  reposed  them- 
selves. Peeping  within  doors  we  perceive  the  whitewashed 
walls  bedecked  with  sundry  Uthographic  prints  and  adver- 
tisements of  various  import,  and  the  immense  show-bill  of 
a  wandering  caravan.  And  there  sits  our  good  old  toll- 
gatherer,  glorified  by  the  early  sunbeams.  He  is  a  man,  as 
his  aspect  may  announce,  of  quiet  soul,  and  thoughtful, 
shrewd,  yet  simple  mind,  who,  of  the  wisdom  which  the 
passing  world  scatters  along  the  wayside,  has  gathered  a 
reasonable  store. 

Now  the  sun  smiles  upon  the  landscape,  and  earth  smiles 
back  again  upon  the  sky.  Frequent,  now,  are  the  travel- 
lers. The  toll-gatherer's  practised  ear  can  distinguish  the 
weight  of  every  vehicle,  the  number  of  its  wheels,  and  how 
many  horses  beat  the  resounding  timbers  with  their  iron 
tramp.     Here,  in  a  substantial  family  chaise,  setting  forth 


Writers  of  the  Mid- Century  and  After     143 

betimes  to  take  advantage  of  the  dewy  road,  come  a  gen- 
tleman and  his  wife,  with  their  rosy-cheeked  little  girl 
sitting  gladsomely  between  them.  The  bottom  of  the 
chaise  is  heaped  with  multifarious  band-boxes  and  carpet- 
bags, and  beneath  the  axle  swings  a  leathern  trunk  dusty 
with  yesterday's  journey.  Next  appears  a  four-wheeled 
carryall,  peopled  by  a  round  half-dozen  of  pretty  girls,  all 
drawn  by  a  single  horse,  and  driven  by  a  single  gentleman. 
Luckless  wight,  doomed,  through  a  whole  summer  day,  to 
be  the  butt  of  mirth  and  mischief  among  the  frolicsome 
maidens.  Bolt  upright  in  a  sulky  rides  a  thin,  sour-visaged 
man,  who,  as  he  pays  his  toll,  hands  the  toll-gatherer  a 
printed  card  to  stick  upon  the  wall.  The  vinegar-faced 
traveller  proves  to  be  a  manufacturer  of  pickles.  Now 
paces  slowly  from  timber  to  timber  a  horseman  clad  in 
black,  with  a  meditative  brow,  as  of  one  who,  whitherso- 
ever his  steed  might  bear  him,  would  still  journey  through 
a  mist  of  brooding  thought.  He  is  a  country  preacher, 
going  to  labor  at  a  protracted  meeting.  The  next  object 
passing  townward  is  a  butcher's  cart,  canopied  with  its 
arch  of  snow-white  cotton.  Behind  comes  a  "sauceman," 
driving  a  wagon  full  of  new  potatoes,  green  ears  of  corn, 
beets,  carrots,  turnips,  and  summer  squashes;  and  next, 
two  wrinkled,  witch-looking  old  gossips,  in  an  antediluvian 
chaise,  drawn  by  a  horse  of  former  generations,  and  going 
to  peddle  out  a  lot  of  huckleberries.  See  there,  a  man 
trundling  a  wheelbarrow  load  of  lobsters.  And  now  a 
milk-cart  rattles  briskly  onward,  covered  with  green  can- 
vas, and  conveying  the  contributions  of  a  whole  herd  of 
cows,  in  large  tin  canisters.  But  let  all  these  pay  their 
toll  and  pass.  Here  comes  a  spectacle  that  causes  the  old 
toll-gatherer  to  smile  benignantly,  as  if  the  travellers 
brought  sunshine  with  them  and  lavished  its  gladsome 
influence  all  along  the  road. 

It  is  a  barouche  of  the  newest  style,  the  varnished  panels 
of  which  reflect  the  whole  moving  panorama  of  the  land- 
scape, and  show  a  picture,  likewise,  of  our  friend,  with  his 
visage  broadened,  so  that  his  meditative  smile  is  trans- 
formed to  grotesque  merriment.     Within,   sits  a  youth, 


144  American  Literature 

fresh  as  the  summer  morn,  and  beside  him  a  young  lady  in 
white,  with  white  gloves  upon  her  slender  hands,  and  a 
white  veil  flowing  down  over  her  face.  But  methinks  her 
blushing  cheek  burns  through  the  snowy  veil.  Another 
white-robed  virgin  sits  in  front.  And  who  are  these,  on 
whom,  and  on  all  that  appertains  to  them,  the  dust  of 
earth  seems  never  to  have  settled?  Two  lovers,  whom  the 
priest  has  blessed,  this  blessed  morn,  and  sent  them  forth, 
with  one  of  the  bridemaids,  on  the  matrimonial  tour. 
Take  my  blessing  too,  ye  happy  ones !  May  the  sky  not 
frown  upon  you,  nor  clouds  bedew  you  with  their  chill 
and  sullen  rain !  May  the  hot  sun  kindle  no  fever  in  your 
hearts !  May  your  whole  life's  pilgrimage  be  as  bHssful 
as  this  first  day's  journey,  and  its  close  be  gladdened  with 
even  brighter  anticipations  than  those  which  hallow  your 
bridal  night ! 

They  pass;  and  ere  the  reflection  of  their  joy  has  faded 
from  his  face,  another  spectacle  throws  a  melancholy 
shadow  over  the  spirit  of  the  observing  man.  In  a  close 
carriage  sits  a  fragile  figure,  muffled  carefuUy,  and  shrink- 
ing even  from  a  mild  breath  of  summer.  She  leans  against 
a  manly  form,  and  his  arm  enfolds  her,  as  if  to  guard  his 
treasure  from  some  enemy.  Let  but  a  few  weeks  pass,  and 
when  he  shall  strive  to  embrace  that  loved  one,  he  will 
press  only  desolation  to  his  heart. 

And  now  has  morning  gathered  up  her  dewy  pearls, 
and  fled  away.  The  sun  roUs  blazing  through  the  sky, 
and  cannot  find  a  cloud  to  cool  his  face  with.  The  horses 
toil  sluggishly  along  the  bridge,  and  heave  their  glistening 
sides  in  short,  quick  pantings,  when  the  reins  are  tightened 
at  the  toll-house.  Glisten,  too,  the  faces  of  the  travellers. 
Their  garments  are  thickly  bestrewn  with  dust;  their 
whiskers  and  hair  look  hoary;  their  throats  are  choked 
with  the  dusty  atmosphere  which  they  have  left  behind 
them.  No  air  is  stirring  on  the  road.  Nature  dares  draw 
no  breath,  lest  she  should  inhale  a  stifling  cloud  of  dust. 
*'A  hot  and  dusty  day!"  cry  the  poor  pilgrims,  as  they 
wipe  their  begrimed  foreheads,  and  woo  the  doubtful 
breeze  which  the  river  bears  along  with  it.     **  Awful  hotl 


Writers  of  the  Mid-  Century  and  After     145 

Dreadful  dusty!"  answers  the  sympathetic  toll-gatherer. 
They  start  again,  to  pass  through  the  fiery  furnace,  while 
he  reenters  his  cool  hermitage,  and  besprinkles  it  with  a 
pail  of  briny  water  from  the  stream  beneath.  He  thinks 
within  himself,  that  the  sun  is  not  so  fierce  here  as  else- 
where, and  that  the  gentle  air  does  not  forget  him  in  these 
sultry  days.  Yes,  old  friend;  and  a  quiet  heart  will  make 
a  dog-day  temperate.  He  hears  a  weary  footstep,  and 
perceives  a  traveller  with  pack  and  staff,  who  sits  down 
upon  the  hospitable  bench,  and  removes  the  hat  from  his 
wet  brow.  The  toll-gatherer  administers  a  cup  of  cold 
water,  and  discovering  his  guest  to  be  a  man  of  homely 
sense,  he  engages  him  in  profitable  talk,  uttering  the 
maxims  of  a  philosophy  which  he  has  found  in  his  own  soul, 
but  knows  not  how  it  came  there.  And  as  the  wayfarer 
makes  ready  to  resume  his  journey,  he  tells  him  a  sovereign 
remedy  for  blistered  feet. 

Now  comes  the  noon-tide  hour, — of  all  the  hours  nearest 
akin  to  midnight;  for  each  has  its  own  calmness  and  repose. 
Soon,  however,  the  world  begins  to  turn  again  upon  its 
axis,  and  it  seems  the  busiest  epoch  of  the  day;  when  an 
accident  impedes  the  march  of  sublunary  things.  The 
draw  being  lifted  to  permit  the  passage  of  a  schooner,  laden 
with  wood  from  the  eastern  forests,  she  sticks  immovably, 
right  athwart  the  bridge!  Meanwhile,  on  both  sides  of 
the  chasm,  a  throng  of  impatient  travellers  fret  and  fume. 
Here  are  two  sailors  in  a  gig,  with  the  top  thrown  back, 
both  puffing  cigars,  and  swearing  all  sorts  of  forecastle 
oaths;  there,  in  a  smart  chaise,  a  dashingly  dressed  gen- 
tleman and  lady,  he  from  a  tailor's  shop-board,  and  she 
from  a  milliner's  back-room, — the  aristocrats  of  a  summer 
afternoon.  And  what  are  the  haughtiest  of  us,  but  the 
ephemeral  aristocrats  of  a  summer's  day?  Here  is  a  tin- 
pedler,  whose  glittering  ware  bedazzles  all  beholders,  like 
a  travelling  meteor,  or  opposition  sun;  and  on  the  other 
side  a  seller  of  spruce-beer,  which  brisk  liquor  is  confined 
in  several  dozen  of  stone  bottles.  Here  comes  a  party  of 
ladies  on  horseback,  in  green  riding  habits,  and  gentlemen 
attendant;    and  there  a  flock  of  sheep  for  the  market, 


146  American  Literature 

pattering  over  the  bridge  with  a  multitudinous  clatter  of 
their  little  hoofs.  Here  a  Frenchman,  with  a  hand-organ 
on  his  shoulder;  and  there  an  itinerant  Swiss  jeweller. 
On  this  side,  heralded  by  a  blast  of  clarions  and  bugles, 
appears  a  train  of  wagons,  conveying  all  the  wild  beasts 
of  a  caravan;  and  on  that,  a  company  of  summer  soldiers, 
marching  from  village  to  village  on  a  festival  campaign, 
attended  by  the  *' brass  band."  Now  look  at  the  scene, 
and  it  presents  an  emblem  of  the  mysterious  confusion, 
the  apparently  insolvable  riddle,  in  which  individuals,  or 
the  great  world  itself,  seem  often  to  be  involved.  What 
miracle  shall  set  all  things  right  again  ? 

But  see!  the  schooner  has  thrust  her  bulky  carcass 
through  the  chasm;  the  draw  descends;  horse  and  foot 
pass  onward,  and  leave  the  bridge  vacant  from  end  to 
end.  "And  thus,"  muses  the  toll-gatherer,  "have  I  found 
it  with  all  stoppages,  even  though  the  universe  seemed  to 
be  at  a  stand."     The  sage  old  man  ! 

Far  westward  now,  the  reddening  sun  throws  a  broad 
sheet  of  splendor  across  the  flood,  and  to  the  eyes  of  dis- 
tant boatmen  gleams  brightly  among  the  timbers  of  the 
bridge.  Strollers  come  from  the  town  to  quaff  the  freshen- 
ing breeze.  One  or  two  let  down  long  Unes,  and  haul  up 
flapping  flounders,  or  cunners,  or  small  cod,  or  perhaps 
an  eel.  Others,  and  fair  girls  among  them,  with  the  flush 
of  the  hot  day  still  on  their  cheeks,  bend  over  the  raihng 
and  watch  the  heaps  of  sea- weed  floating  upward  with  the 
flowing  tide.  The  horses  now  tramp  heavily  along  the 
bridge,  and  wistfully  bethink  them  of  their  stables.  Rest, 
rest,  thou  weary  world;  for  to-morrow's  round  of  toil  and 
pleasure  will  be  as  wearisome  as  to-day's  has  been;  yet 
both  shall  bear  thee  onward  a  day's  march  of  eternity. 
Now  the  old  toll-gatherer  looks  seaward,  and  discerns 
the  lighthouse  kindUng  on  a  far  island,  and  the  stars,  too, 
kindUng  in  the  sky,  as  if  but  a  little  way  beyond ;  and  min- 
gling the  reveries  of  Heaven  with  remembrances  of  Earth, 
the  whole  procession  of  mortal  travellers,  all  the  dusty 
pilgrimage  which  he  has  witnessed,  seems  like  a  flitting 
show  of  phantoms  for  his  thoughtful  soul  to  muse  upon. 


Writers  of  the  Mid- Century  and  After     147 

4.  Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow  (i 807-1 882)  was  born  in 
Portland,  Maine,  and  educated  at  Bowdoin  College.  After 
graduation  he  went  abroad  to  study  foreign  languages  and 
literatures  so  that  he  might  be  able  to  teach  them  at  his  alma 
mater.  In  three  years  he  returned  and  spent  the  next  six 
years  as  a  professor  at  Bowdoin.  He  then  accepted  the  pro- 
fessorship of  modern  languages  at  Harvard,  but  before  enter- 
ing on  the  work  went  abroad  for  another  year's  study.  He 
held  the  position  for  eighteen  years;  then  he  resigned  and 
devoted  the  rest  of  his  life  to  writing.  He  was  a  pioneer  in 
reveaUng  to  the  American  public  the  beauties  of  foreign  lit- 
eratures through  his  translations.  Longfellow  is  the  most 
popular  of  all  our  poets  in  America  and  is  more  widely  read 
abroad  than  any  other  American  poet  with  the  possible  ex- 
ception of  Poe.  Both  Oxford  and  Cambridge  conferred  on  him 
honorary  degrees.  In  1884  a  marble  bust  of  Longfellow  was 
placed  in  the  Poet's  Corner  of  Westminster  Abbey. 

The  Skeleton  in  Armor 

*' Speak !  speak !  thou  fearful  guest ! 
Who,  with  thy  hollow  breast 
Still  in  rude  armor  drest, 

Comest  to  daunt  me  ! 
Wrapt  not  in  Eastern  balms, 
But  with  thy  fleshless  palms 
Stretched,  as  if  asking  alms, 
Why  dost  thou  haunt  me?" 

Then,  from  those  cavernous  eyes 
Pale  flashes  seemed  to  rise. 
As  when  the  Northern  skies 

Gleam  in  December; 
And,  like  the  water's  flow 
Under  December's  snow, 
Came  a  dull  voice  of  woe 

From  the  heart's  chamber. 

"I  was  a  Viking  old  ! 

My  deeds,  though  manifold, 

No  Skald  in  song  has  told, 


148  American  Literature 

No  Saga  taught  thee ! 
Take  heed,  that  in  thy  verse 
Thou  dost  the  tale  rehearse, 
Else  dread  a  dead  man's  curse; 

For  this  I  sought  thee. 

"  Far  in  the  Northern  Land, 
By  the  wild  Baltic's  strand, 
I,  with  my  childish  hand. 

Tamed  the  gerfalcon; 
And,  with  my  skates  fast-bound, 
Skimmed  the  half-frozen  Sound, 
That  the  poor  whimpering  hound 

Trembled  to  walk  on. 

*'Oft  to  his  frozen  lair 
Tracked  I  the  grisly  bear. 
While  from  my  path  the  hare 

Fled  like  a  shadow; 
Oft  through  the  forest  dark 
Followed  the  were-wolf's  bark, 
Until  the  soaring  lark 

Sang  from  the  meadow. 

**But  when  I  older  grew. 
Joining  a  corsair's  crew. 
O'er  the  dark  sea  I  flew 

With  the  marauders. 
Wild  was  the  life  we  led, 
Many  the  souls  that  sped, 
Many  the  hearts  that  bled. 

By  our  stern  orders. 

''Many  a  wassail-bout 
Wore  the  long  Winter  out; 
Often  our  midnight  shout 
Set  the  cocks  crowing, 
As  we  the  Berserk's  tale 
Measured  in  cups  of  ale. 


Writers  of  the  Mid-  Century  and  After     149 

Draining  the  oaken  pail, 
Filled  to  o'erflowing. 

"Once  as  I  told  in  glee 
Tales  of  the  stormy  sea, 
Soft  eyes  did  gaze  on  me, 

Burning  yet  tender; 
And  as  the  white  stars  shine 
On  the  dark  Norway  pine, 
On  that  dark  heart  of  mine 

Fell  their  soft  splendor. 

*'I  wooed  the  blue-eyed  maid, 
Yielding,  yet  half  afraid. 
And  in  the  forest's  shade 

Our  vows  were  phghted. 
Under  its  loosened  vest 
Fluttered  her  little  breast. 
Like  birds  within  their  nest 

By  the  hawk  frighted. 

*^  Bright  in  her  father's  hall 
Shields  gleamed  upon  the  wall, 
Loud  sang  the  minstrels  all, 

Chanting  his  glory; 
When  of  old  Hildebrand 
I  asked  his  daughter's  hand. 
Mute  did  the  minstrels  stand 

To  hear  my  story. 

*' While  the  brown  ale  he  quaffed, 
Loud  then  the  champion  laughed, 
And  as  the  wind-gusts  waft 

The  sea-foam  brightly. 
So  the  loud  laugh  of  scorn, 
Out  of  those  lips  unshorn, 
From  the  deep  drinking-horn 

Blew  the  foam  lightly. 


iliSO  American  Literature 

"She  was  a  Prince's  child, 

I  but  a  Viking  wild, 

And  though  she  blushed  and  smiled, 

I  was  discarded ! 
Should  not  the  dove  so  white 
Follow  the  sea-mew's  flight. 
Why  did  they  leave  that  night 

Her  nest  unguarded  ? 

"Scarce  had  I  put  to  sea, 
Bearing  the  maid  with  me, 
Fairest  of  all  was  she 

Among  the  Norsemen ! 
When  on  the  white  sea-strand, 
Waving  his  armed  hand, 
Saw  we  old  Hildebrand, 

With  twenty  horsemen. 

"Then  launched  they  to  the  blast, 
Bent  like  a  reed  each  mast, 
Yet  we  were  gaining  fast. 

When  the  wind  failed  us; 
And  with  a  sudden  flaw 
Came  round  the  gusty  Skaw, 
So  that  our  foe  we  saw 

Laugh  as  he  hailed  us. 

"And  as  to  catch  the  gale 
Round  veered  the  flapping  sail, 
*  Death !'  was  the  helmsman's  hail; 

'Death  without  quarter!' 
Mid-ships  with  iron  keel 
Struck  we  her  ribs  of  steel; 
Down  her  black  hulk  did  reel 

Through  the  black  water ! 

"As  with  his  wings  aslant. 
Sails  the  fierce  cormorant. 
Seeking  some  rocky  haunt, 
^With  his  prey  laden; 


Writers  of  the  Mid- Century  and  After     151 

So  toward  the  open  main, 
Beating  to  sea  again, 
Through  the  wild  hurricane. 
Bore  I  the  maiden. 

"Three  weeks  we  westward  bore, 
And  when  the  storm  was  o'er, 
Cloud-Uke  we  saw  the  shore 

Stretching  to  leeward; 
There  for  my  lady's  bower 
Built  I  the  lofty  tower. 
Which,  to  this  very  hour, 

Stands  looking  seaward. 

"There  lived  we  many  years; 
Time  dried  the  maiden's  tears; 
She  had  forgot  her  fears, 

She  was  a  mother; 
Death  closed  her  mild  blue  eyes, 
Under  the  tower  she  lies; 
Ne'er  shall  the  sun  arise 

On  such  another ! 

"Still  grew  my  bosom  then, 
Still  as  a  stagnant  fen ! 
Hateful  to  me  were  men, 

The  sunlight  hateful ! 
In  the  vast  forest  here. 
Clad  in  my  warlike  gear, 
Fell  I  upon  my  spear, 

O,  death  was  grateful ! 

"Thus  seamed  with  many  scars 
Bursting  these  prison  bars. 
Up  to  its  native  stars 

My  soul  ascended ! 
There  from  the  flowing  bowl 
Deep  drinks  the  warrior's  soul 
Skoal!  to  the  Northland  !  skoal!'' 

— Thus  the  tale  ended. 


152  American  Literature 


The  Arrow  and  the  Song 

I  shot  an  arrow  into  the  air. 

It  fell  to  earth,  I  knew  not  where; 
For,  so  swiftly  it  flew,  the  sight 

Could  not  follow  in  its  flight. 

I  breathed  a  song  into  the  air. 

It  fell  to  earth,  I  knew  not  where; 
For  who  has  sight  so  keen  and  strong 

That  it  can  follow  the  flight  of  song. 

Long,  long  afterward,  in  an  oak, 
I  found  the  arrow  still  unbroke; 

And  the  song,  from  beginning  to  end, 
I  found  again  in  the  heart  of  a  friend. 

The  Day  Is  Done 

The  day  is  done,  and  the  darkness 
Falls  from  the  wings  of  Night, 

As  a  feather  is  wafted  downward 
From  an  eagle  in  his  flight. 

I  see  the  lights  of  the  village 

Gleam  through  the  rain  and  the  mist,  ^ 
And  a  feeling  of  sadness  comes  o'er  me, 

That  my  soul  cannot  resist; 

A  feeling  of  sadness  and  longing 

That  is  not  akin  to  pain. 
And  resembles  sorrow  only 

As  the  mist  resembles  the  rain. 

Come,  read  to  me  some  poem. 
Some  simple  and  heartfelt  lay. 

That  shall  soothe  this  restless  feeling, 
And  banish  the  thoughts  of  day. 


Writers  of  the  Mid-  Century  and  After     15S 

Not  from  the  grand  old  masters, 

Not  from  the  bards  sublime, 
Whose  distant  footsteps  echo 

Through  the  corridors  of  Time. 

For,  like  strains  of  martial  music. 
Their  mighty  thoughts  suggest 

Life's  endless  toil  and  endeavor; 
And  to-night  I  long  for  rest. 

Read  from  some  humbler  poet. 

Whose  songs  gushed  from  his  heart, 

As  showers  from  the  clouds  of  summer, 
Or  tears  from  the  eyelids  start; 

Who,  through  long  days  of  labor, 

And  nights  devoid  of  ease. 
Still  heard  in  his  soul  the  music 

Of  wonderful  melodies. 

Such  songs  have  power  to  quiet 

The  restless  pulse  of  care. 
And  come  like  the  benediction 

That  follows  after  prayer. 

Then  read  from  the  treasured  volume 

The  poem  of  thy  choice. 
And  lend  to  the  rhyme  of  the  poet 

The  beauty  of  thy  voice. 

Hiawatha's  Wooing 

(From  the  Song  of  Hiawatha) 

"  As  unto  the  bow  the  cord  is. 
So  unto  the  man  is  woman; 
Though  she  bends  him,  she  obeys  him, 
Though  she  draws  him,  yet  she  follows; 
Useless  each  without  the  other ! " 
Thus  the  youthful  Hiawatha 


154  American  Literature 

Said  within  himself  and  pondered, 
Much  perplexed  by  various  feelings, 
Listless,  longing,  hoping,  fearing, 
Dreaming  still  of  Minnehaha, 
Of  the  lovely  Laughing  Water, 
Li  the  land  of  the  Dacotahs. 

"Wed  a  maiden  of  your  people," 
Warning  said  the  old  Nokomis; 
''Go  not  eastward,  go  not  westward, 
For  a  stranger,  whom  we  know  not ! 
Like  a  fire  upon  the  hearth-stone 
Is  a  neighbor's  homely  daughter. 
Like  the  starlight  or  the  moonlight 
Is  the  handsomest  of  strangers !" 

Thus  dissuading  spake  Nokomis, 
And  my  Hiawatha  answered 
Only  this:  ''Dear  old  Nokomis, 
Very  pleasant  is  the  firelight 
But  I  like  the  starlight  better, 
Better  do  I  like  the  moonlight ! " 

Gravely  then  said  old  Nokomis: 
*' Bring  not  here  an  idle  maiden. 
Bring  not  here  a  useless  woman. 
Hands  unskilful,  feet  unwilling; 
Bring  a  wife  with  nimble  fingers. 
Heart  and  hand  that  move  together, 
Feet  that  run  on  willing  errands !" 

Smiling  answered  Hiawatha: 
*'In  the  land  of  the  Dacotahs 
Lives  the  Arrow-maker's  daughter, 
Minnehaha,  Laughing  Water, 
Handsomest  of  all  the  women. 
I  will  bring  her  to  your  wigwam, 
She  shall  run  upon  your  errands, 
Be  your  starlight,  moonlight,  firelight, 
Be  the  sunlight  of  my  people !" 

Still  dissuading  said  Nokomis: 
"Bring  not  to  my  lodge  a  stranger 
From  the  land  of  the  Dacotahs ! 


Writers  of  the  Mid-  Century  and  After     155 

Very  fierce  are  the  Dacotahs, 
Often  is  there  war  between  us, 
There  are  feuds  yet  unforgotten, 
Wounds  that  ache  and  still  may  open !" 

Laughing  answered  Hiawatha: 
"For  that  reason,  if  no  other. 
Would  I  wed  the  fair  Dacotah, 
That  our  tribes  might  be  united, 
That  old  feuds  might  be  forgotten, 
And  old  wounds  be  healed  forever !" 

Thus  departed  Hiawatha 
To  the  land  of  the  Dacotahs, 
To  the  land  of  handsome  women; 
Striding  over  moor  and  meadow, 
Through  interminable  forests. 
Through  uninterrupted  silence. 

With  his  moccasins  of  magic. 
At  each  stride  a  mile  he  measured; 
Yet  the  way  seemed  long  before  him, 
And  his  heart  outran  his  footsteps; 
And  he  journeyed  without  resting. 
Till  he  heard  the  cataract's  laughter, 
Heard  the  Falls  of  Minnehaha 
CaUing  to  him  through  the  silence. 
"Pleasant  is  the  sound !"  he  murmured, 
"Pleasant  is  the  voice  that  calls- me !" 

On  the  outskirts  of  the  forests, 
'Twixt  the  shadow  and  the  sunshine, 
Herds  of  fallow  deer  were  feeding. 
But  they  saw  not  Hiawatha; 
To  his  bow  he  whispered,  "Fail  not !" 
To  his  arrow  whispered,  "Swerve  not!" 
Sent  it  singing  on  its  errand, 
To  the  red  heart  of  the  roebuck; 
Threw  the  deer  across  his  shoulder, 
And  sped  forward  without  pausing. 

At  the  doorway  of  his  wigwam 
Sat  the  ancient  Arrow-maker, 
In  the  land  of  the  Dacotahs, 


156  American  Literature 

Making  arrow-heads  of  jasper, 

Arrow-heads  of  chalcedony. 

At  his  side,  in  all  her  beauty, 

Sat  the  lovely  Minnehaha, 

Sat  his  daughter,  Laughing  Water, 

Plaiting  mats  of  flags  and  rushes; 

Of  the  past  the  old  man's  thoughts  were, 

And  the  maiden's  of  the  future. 

He  was  thinking,  as  he  sat  there, 
Of  the  days  when  with  such  arrows 
He  had  struck  the  deer  and  bison. 
On  the  Muskoday,  the  meadow; 
Shot  the  wild  goose,  flying  southward, 
On  the  wing,  the  clamorous  Wawa; 
Thinking  of  the  great  war-parties, 
How  they  came  to  buy  his  arrows, 
Could  not  fight  without  his  arrows, 
Ah,  no  more  such  noble  warriors 
Could  be  found  on  earth  as  they  were ! 
Now  the  men  were  all  like  women, 
Only  used  their  tongues  for  weapons ! 

She  was  thinking  of  a  hunter, 
From  another  tribe  and  country, 
Young  and  tall  and  very  handsome. 
Who  one  morning,  in  the  Spring-time, 
Came  to  buy  her  father's  arrows, 
Sat  and  rested  in  the  wigwam, 
Lingered  long  about  the  doorway. 
Looking  back  as  he  departed. 
She  had  heard  her  father  praise  him. 
Praise  his  courage  and  his  wisdom; 
Would  he  come  again  for  arrows 
To  the  Falls  of  Minnehaha  ? 
On  the  mat  her  hands  lay  idle. 
And  her  eyes  were  very  dreamy. 

Through  their  thoughts  they  heard  a  footstep. 
Heard  a  rustling  in  the  branches. 
And  with  glowing  cheek  and  forehead, 
With  the  deer  upon  his  shoulders, 


Writers  of  the  Mid-  Century  and  After     157 

Suddenly  from  out  the  woodlands 
Hiawatha  stood  before  them. 

Straight  the  ancient  Arrow-maker 
Looked  up  gravely  from  his  labor, 
Laid  aside  the  unfinished  arrow, 
Bade  him  enter  at  the  doorway. 
Saying,  as  he  rose  to  meet  him, 
'^  Hiawatha,  you  are  welcome !'' 

At  the  feet  of  Laughing  Water 
Hiawatha  laid  his  burden, 
Threw  the  red  deer  from  his  shoulders; 
And  the  maiden  looked  up  at  him. 
Looked  up  from  her  mat  of  rushes, 
Said  with  gentle  look  and  accent, 
**You  are  welcome,  Hiawatha !" 

Very  spacious  was  the  wigwam. 
Made  of  deer-skins  dressed  and  whitened 
With  the  Gods  of  the  Dacotahs 
Drawn  and  painted  on  its  curtains, 
And  so  tall  the  doorway,  hardly 
Hiawatha  stooped  to  enter. 
Hardly  touched  his  eagle-feathers 
As  he  entered  at  the  doorway. 

Then  uprose  the  Laughing  Water, 
From  the  ground  fair  Minnehaha, 
Laid  aside  her  mat  unfinished, 
Brought  forth  food  and  set  before  them, 
Water  brought  them  from  the  brooklet. 
Gave  them  food  in  earthen  vessels, 
Gave  them  drink  in  bowls  of  bass-wood, 
Listened  while  the  guest  was  speaking, 
Listened  while  her  father  answered. 
But  not  once  her  lips  she  opened. 
Not  a  single  word  she  uttered. 

Yes,  as  in  a  dream  she  listened 
To  the  words  of  Hiawatha, 
As  he  talked  of  old  Nokomis, 
Who  had  nursed  him  in  his  childhood, 
As  he  told  of  his  companions. 


158  American  Literature 

Chibiabos,  the  musician, 

And  the  very  strong  man,  Kwasind, 

And  of  happiness  and  plenty 

In  the  land  of  the  Ojibways, 

In  the  pleasant  land  and  peaceful. 

"After  many  years  of  warfare. 
Many  years  of  strife  and  bloodshed, 
There  is  peace  between  the  Ojibways 
And  the  tribe  of  the  Dacotahs." 
Thus  continued  Hiawatha, 
And  then  added,  speaking  slowly, 
"That  this  peace  may  last  forever. 
And  our  hands  be  clasped  more  closely, 
And  our  hearts  be  more  united, 
Give  me  as  my  wife  this  maiden, 
Minnehaha,  Laughing  Water, 
Loveliest  of  Dacotah  women ! '' 

And  the  ancient  Arrow-maker 
Paused  a  moment  ere  he  answered. 
Smoked  a  Httle  while  in  silence. 
Looked  at  Hiawatha  proudly. 
Fondly  looked  at  Laughing  Water, 
And  made  answer  very  gravely: 
"Yes,  if  Minnehaha  wishes; 
Let  your  heart  speak,  Minnehaha !" 

And  the  lovely  Laughing  Water 
Seemed  more  lovely  as  she  stood  there, 
Neither  wilUng  nor  reluctant, 
As  she  went  to  Hiawatha, 
Softly  took  the  seat  beside  him, 
While  she  said,  and  blushed  to  say  it, 
"I  will  follow  you,  my  husband !" 

This  was  Hiawatha's  wooing ! 
Thus  it  was  he  won  the  daughter 
Of  the  ancient  Arrow-maker, 
In  the  land  of  the  Dacotahs ! 

From  the  wigwam  he  departed, 
Leading  with  him  Laughing  Water; 
Hand  in  hand  they  went  together. 


Writers  of  the  Mid- Century  and  After     159 

Through  the  woodland  and  the  meadow, 
Left  the  old  man  standing  lonely 
At  the  doorway  of  his  wigwam, 
Heard  the  Falls  of  Minnehaha 
Calling  to  them  from  the  distance, 
Crying  to  them  from  afar  off, 
^'Fare  thee  well,  O  Minnehaha !" 

And  the  ancient  Arrow-maker 
Turned  again  unto  his  labor. 
Sat  down  by  his  sunny  doorway 
Murmuring  to  himself,  and  saying: 
**Thus  it  is  our  daughters  leave  us, 
Those  we  love,  and  those  who  love  us ! 
Just  when  they  have  learned  to  help  us, 
When  we  are  old  and  lean  upon  them. 
Comes  a  youth  with  flaunting  feathers. 
With  his  flute  of  reeds,  a  stranger 
Wanders  piping  through  the  village, 
Beckons  to  the  fairest  maiden. 
And  she  follows  where  he  leads  her. 
Leaving  all  things  for  the  stranger !'' 

Pleasant  was  the  journey  homeward. 
Through  interminable  forests. 
Over  meadow,  over  mountain, 
Over  river,  hill,  and  hollow. 
Short  it  seemed  to  Hiawatha, 
Though  they  journeyed  very  slowly. 
Though  his  pace  he  checked  and  slackened 
To  the  steps  of  Laughing  Water. 

Over  wide  and  rushing  rivers 
In  his  arms  he  bore  the  maiden; 
Light  he  thought  her  as  a  feather, 
As  the  plume  upon  his  head-gear; 
Cleared  the  tangled  pathway  for  her, 
Bent  aside  the  swaying  branches. 
Made  at  night  a  lodge  of  branches. 
And  a  bed  with  boughs  of  hemlock. 
And  a  fire  before  the  doorway 
With  the  dry  cones  of  the  pine-tree. 


160  American  Literature 

All  the  traveling  winds  went  with  them. 
O'er  the  meadows,  through  the  forest; 
All  the  stars  of  night  looked  at  them, 
Watched  with  sleepless  eyes  their  slmnber; 
From  his  ambush  in  the  oak-tree 
Peeped  the  squirrel,  Adjidaumo, 
Watched  with  eager  eyes  the  lovers; 
And  the  rabbit,  the  Wabasso, 
Scampered  from  the  path  before  them. 
Peering,  peeping  from  his  burrow, 
Sat  erect  upon  his  haunches. 
Watched  with  curious  eyes  the  lovers. 

Pleasant  was  the  journey  homeward ! 
All  the  birds  sang  loud  and  sweetly 
Songs  of  happiness  and  heart 's-ease; 
Sang  the  bluebird,  the  Owaissa, 
*' Happy  are  you,  Hiawatha, 
Having  now  a  wife  to  love  you !" 
Sang  the  robin,  the  Opechee, 
*' Happy  are  you.  Laughing  Water, 
Having  such  a  noble  husband  !" 

From  the  sky  the  sun  benignant 
Looked  upon  them  through  the  branches. 
Saying  to  them,  "O  my  children. 
Love  is  sunshine,  hate  is  shadow, 
Life  is  checkered  shade  and  sunshine. 
Rule  by  love,  O  Hiawatha !" 

From  the  sky  the  moon  looked  at  them, 
Prilled  the  lodge  with  mystic  splendors, 
Whispered  to  them,  "O  my  children, 
Day  is  restless,  night  is  quiet, 
Man  imperious,  woman  feeble; 
Half  is  mine,  although  I  follow; 
Rule  by  patience,  Laughing  Water !  '^ 

Thus  it  was  they  journeyed  homeward; 
Thus  it  was  that  Hiawatha 
To  the  lodge  of  old  Nokomis 
Brought  the  moonlight,  starlight,  firelight. 
Brought  the  sunshine  of  his  people,  , 


Jf^r iters  of  the  Mid- Century  and  After     161 

Minnehaha,  Laughing  Water, 
Handsomest  of  all  the  women 
In  the  land  of  the  Dacotahs, 
In  the  land  of  handsome  women. 

5.  John  Greenleaf  Whittier  (1807-1892),  the  Quaker  poet, 
was  reared  on  a  farm  and  never  went  to  college.  He  became 
an  abolitionist  and  devoted  himself  to  the  cause  of  the  slave. 
Emancipation  was  the  theme  of  many  of  his  poems  before  the 
Civil  War.  It  was  after  the  war  (in  1866)  that  he  pubhshed 
his  masterpiece  Snow-Bound,  which  gives  a  vivid  picture  of 
New  England  farm  life  in  winter.  This  ranks  with  Goldsmith's 
Deserted  Village  and  Burns's  The  Cotter^s  Saturday  Night  as 
one  of  the  best  pictures  of  homely  domestic  life. 

The  Frost  Spirit 

He  comes, — he  comes, — the  Frost  Spirit  comes !    You  may 

trace  his  footsteps  now 
On  the  naked  woods  and  the  blasted  fields  and  the  brown 

hill's  withered  brow. 
He  has  smitten  the  leaves  of  the  gray  old  trees  where  their 

pleasant  green  came  forth. 
And  the  winds,  which  follow  wherever  he  goes,  have  shaken 

them  down  to  earth. 

He  comes, — he  comes, — the  Frost  Spirit  comes ! — from  the 

frozen  Labrador, — 
From  tfie  icy  bridge  of  the  Northern  seas,  which  the  white 

bear  wanders  o'er, — 
Where  the  fisherman's  sail  is  stiff  with  ice,  and  the  luckless 

forms  below 
In  the  sunless  cold  of  the  lingering  night  into  marble  statues 

grow! 

He  comes, — he  comes, — the  Frost  Spirit  comes! — on  the 

rushing  Northern  blast. 
And  the  dark  Norwegian  pines  have  bowed  as  his  fearful 

breath  went  past. 


162  American  Literature 

With  an  unscorched  wing  he  has  hurried  on,  where  the 

fires  of  Hecla  glow 
On  the  darkly  beautiful  sky  above  and  the  ancient  ice  below. 

He  comes, — he  comes, — the  Frost  Spirit  comes ! — and  the 

quiet  lake  shall  feel 
The  torpid  touch  of  his  glazing  breath,  and  ring  to  the 

skater's  heel; 
And  the  streams  which  danced  on  the  broken  rocks,  or 

sang  to  the  leaning  grass, 
Shall  bow  again  to  their  winter  chain,  and  in  mournful 

silence  pass. 

He  comes, — he  comes, — the  Frost  Spirit  comes! — let  us 
meet  him  as  we  may. 

And  turn  with  the  light  of  the  parlor-fire  his  evil  power 
away; 

And  gather  closer  the  circle  round,  when  that  firelight 
dances  high, 

And  laugh  at  the  shriek  of  the  baffled  Fiend  as  his  sound- 
ing wing  goes  by ! 

Maud  Muller 

Maud  Muller,  on  a  summer's  day 
Raked  the  meadow  sweet  with  hay. 

Beneath  her  torn  hat  glowed  the  wealth 
Of  simple  beauty  and  rustic  health. 

Singing,  she  wrought,  and  her  merry  glee 
The  mock-bird  echoed  from  his  tree. 

But  when  she  glanced  to  the  far-off  town, 
White  from  its  hill-slope  looking  down. 

The  sweet  song  died,  and  a  vague  unrest 
And  a  nameless  longing  filled  her  breast, — 


Writers  of  the  Mid- Century  and  After     163 

A  wish,  that  she  hardly  dared  to  own, 
For  something  better  than  she  had  known. 

The  Judge  rode  slowly  down  the  lane, 
Smoothing  his  horse's  chestnut  mane. 

He  drew  his  bridle  in  the  shade 

Of  the  apple-trees  to  greet  the  maid, 

And  ask  a  draught  from  the  spring  that  flowed 
Through  the  meadow  across  the  road. 

She  stooped  where  the  cool  spring  bubbled  up 
And  filled  for  him  her  small  tin  cup, 

And  blushed  as  she  gave  it,  looking  down 
On  her  feet  so  bare,  and  her  tattered  gown. 

"Thanks !"  said  the  Judge;  "a  sweeter  draught 
From  a  fairer  hand  was  never  qualffed." 

He  spoke  of  the  grass  and  flowers  and  trees,  ' 
Of  the  singing  birds  and  the  humming  bees; 

Then  talked  of  the  haying,  and  wondered  whether 
The  cloud  in  the  west  would  bring  foul  weather. 

And  Maud  forgot  her  brier-torn  gown. 
And  her  graceful  ankles  bare  and  brown; 

And  listened,  while  a  pleased  surprise 
Looked  from  her  long-lashed  hazel  eyes. 

At  last,  like  one  who  for  delay 
Seeks  a  vain  excuse,  he  rode  away. 

Maud  Muller  looked  and  sighed:  "Ah  me ! 
That  I  the  Judge's  bride  might  be ! 


164  American  Literature 

"He  would  dress  me  up  in  silks  so  fine, 
And  praise  and  toast  me  at  his  wine. 

"My  father  should  wear  a  broadcloth  coat; 
My  brother  should  sail  a  painted  boat. 

"I'd  dress  my  mother  so  grand  and  gay, 

And  the  baby  should  have  a  new  toy  each  day. 

"And  I'd  feed  the  hungry  and  clothe  the  poor. 
And  all  should  bless  me  who  left  our  door." 

The  Judge  looked  back  as  he  climbed  the  hill. 
And  saw  Maud  MuUer  standing  still. 

"A  form  more  fair,  a  face  more  sweet, 
Ne'er  hath  it  been  my  lot  to  meet. 

"And  her  modest  answer  and  graceful  air 
Show  her  wise  and  good  as  she  is  fair. 

"Would  she  were  mine,  and  I  to-day. 
Like  her,  a  harvester  of  hay: 

"No  doubtful  balance  of  rights  and  wrongs. 
Nor  weary  lawyers  with  endless  tongues, 

"But  low  of  cattle  and  song  of  birds, 
And  health  and  quiet  and  loving  words." 

But  he  thought  of  his  sisters  proud  and  cold. 
And  his  mother  vain  of  her  rank  and  gold. 

So,  closing  his  heart,  the  Judge  rode  on, 
And  Maud  was  left  in  the  field  alone. 

But  the  lawyers  smiled  that  afternoon, 
When  he  hummed  in  court  an  old  love-tune; 


Writers  of  the  Mid- Century  and  After     165 

And  the  young  girl  mused  beside  the  well, 
Till  the  rain  on  the  unraked  clover  fell. 


He  wedded  a  wife  of  richest  dower, 
Who  lived  for  fashion,  as  he  for  power. 

Yet  oft,  in  his  marble  hearth's  bright  glow, 
He  watched  a  picture  come  and  go; 

And  sweet  Maud  Muller's  hazel  eyes 
Looked  out  in  their  innocent  surprise. 

Oft,  when  the  wine  in  his  glass  was  red, 
He  longed  for  the  wayside  well  instead; 

And  closed  his  eyes  on  his  garnished  rooms, 
To  dream  of  meadows  and  clover-blooms. 

And  the  proud  man  sighed,  with  a  secret  pain, 
*' Ah,  that  I  were  free  again ! 

^^Free  as  when  I  rode  that  day. 

Where  the  barefoot  maiden  raked  her  hay." 

She  wedded  a  man  unlearned  and  poor. 
And  many  children  played  round  her  door. 

But  care,  and  sorrow,  and  childbirth  pain, 
Left  their  traces  on  heart  and  brain. 

And  oft,  when  the  summer  sun  shone  hot. 
On  the  new-mown  hay  in  the  meadow  lot. 

And  she  heard  the  little  spring  brook  fall 
Over  the  roadside,  through  the  wall. 

In  the  shade  of  the  apple-tree  again 
She  saw  a  rider  draw  his  rein. 


166  American  Literature 

And,  gazing  down  with  timid  grace, 
She  felt  his  pleased  eyes  read  her  face. 

Sometimes  her  narrow  kitchen  walls 
Stretched  away  into  stately  halls; 

The  weary  wheel  to  a  spinnet  turned, 
The  tallow  candle  an  astral  burned, 

And  for  him  who  sat  by  the  chimney  lug, 
Dozing  and  grumbling  o'er  pipe  and  mug, 

A  manly  form  at  her  side  she  saw, 
And  joy  was  duty  and  love  was  law. 

Then  she  took  up  her  burden  of  life  again, 
Saying  only,  *'It  might  have  been." 

Alas  for  maiden,  alas  for  Judge, 

For  rich  repiner  and  household  drudge ! 

God  pity  them  both !  and  pity  us  all. 
Who  vainly  the  dreams  of  youth  recall. 

For  of  all  sad  words  of  tongue  or  pen. 

The  saddest  are  these:  *'It  might  have  been !" 

Ah,  well !  for  us  all  some  sweet  hope  lies 
Deeply  buried  from  human  eyes; 

And,  in  the  hereafter,  angels  may 
Roll  the  stone  from  its  grave  away ! 

6.  James  Russell  Lowell  (1819-1891),  "  scholar,  teacher, 
editor,  wit,  diplomat,  of  various  and  admirable  gifts;  Amer- 
ica's most  finished  citizen  and  man  of  letters,"  was  a  graduate 
of  Harvard,  where  he  succeeded  Longfellow  as  professor  of 
modern  languages.  While  a  student  at  college  he  tells  us  he 
read  almost  everything  except  the  text-books  prescribed  by 


Writers  of  the  Mid- Century  and  After     167 

the  Faculty.  He  served  his  country  as  Minister  to  Spain  and 
later  to  England.  He  was  the  first  editor  of  the  Atlantic 
Monthly.  In  his  Biglow  Papers  he  makes  a  protest  in  Yankee 
dialect  first  against  the  war  with  Mexico  and  next  against 
the  Southern  cause.  In  his  FaUe  for  Critics  he  gives  us  a  witty 
estimate  of  contemporary  writers.  His  essays  in  criticism 
rank  among  the  best  yet  produced  in  America. 


The  Shepherd  of  King  Admetus 

There  came  a  youth  upon  the  earth, 

Some  thousand  years  ago, 
Whose  slender  hands  were  nothing  worth, 
Whether  to  plough,  or  reap,  or  sow. 

Upon  an  empty  tortoise-shell 

He  stretched  some  chords,  and  drew 
Music  that  made  men's  bosoms  swell 
Fearless,  or  brimmed  their  eyes  with  dew. 

Then  King  Admetus,  one  who  had 

Pure  taste  by  right  divine, 
Decreed  his  singing  not  too  bad 
To  hear  between  the  cups  of  wine: 

And  so,  well-pleased  with  being  soothed 

Into  a  sweet  half-sleep. 
Three  times  his  kingly  beard  he  smoothed, 
And  made  him  viceroy  o'er  his  sheep. 

His  words  were  simple  words  enough, 

And  yet  he  used  them  so, 
That  what  in  other  mouths  was  rough 
In  his  seemed  musical  and  low. 

Men  called  him  but  a  shiftless  youth. 

In  whom  no  good  they  saw; 
And  yet,  unwittingly,  in  truth. 
They  made  his  careless  words  their  law. 


168  American  Literature 

They  knew  not  how  he  learned  at  all, 

For  idly,  hour  by  hour, 
He  sat  and  watched  the  dead  leaves  fall, 
Or  mused  upon  a  common  flower. 

It  seemed  the  loveliness  of  things 

Did  teach  him  all  their  use, 
For,  in  mere  weeds,  and  stones,  and  springs, 
He  found  a  healing  power  profuse. 

Men  granted  that  his  speech  was  wise, 

But,  when  a  glance  they  caught 
Of  his  slim  grace  and  woman's  eyes. 
They  laughed,  and  called  him  good-for-naught. 

Yet,  after  he  was  dead  and  gone, 

And  e'en  his  memory  dim, 
Earth  seemed  more  sweet  to  live  upon, 
More  full  of  love,  because  of  him. 

And  day  by  day  more  holy  grew 
Each  spot  where  he  had  trod. 
Till  after-poets  only  knew 
Their  first-born  brother  as  a  god. 

To  THE  Dandelion 

Dear  common  flower,  that  grow'st  beside  the  way, 
Fringing  the  dusty  road  with  harmless  gold, 

First  pledge  of  blithesome  May, 
Which  children  pluck,  and,  full  of  pride,  uphold. 
High-hearted  buccaneers,  o'erjoyed  that  they 
An  Eldorado  in  the  grass  have  found. 

Which  not  the  rich  earth's  ample  round 
May  match  in  wealth,  thou  art  more  dear  to  me 
Than  all  the  prouder  summer-blooms  may  be. 

Gold  such  as  thine  ne'er  drew  the  Spanish  prow 
Through  the  primeval  hush  of  Indian  seas. 
Nor  wrinkled  the  lean  brow 


Writers  of  the  Mid- Century  and  After     169 

Of  age,  to  rob  the  lover's  heart  of  ease; 

'Tis  the  spring's  largess,  which  she  scatters  now 
To  rich  and  poor  alike,  with  lavish  hand, 

Though  most  hearts  never  understand 
To  take  it  at  God's  value,  but  pass  by 
The  offered  wealth  with  unrewarded  eye. 

Thou  art  my  tropics  and  mine  Italy; 
To  look  at  thee  unlocks  a  warmer  clime; 

The  eyes  thou  givest  me 
Are  in  the  heart,  and  heed  not  space  or  time: 

Not  in  mid  June  the  golden-cuirassed  bee 
Feels  a  more  summer-like  warm  ravishment 

In  the  white  lily's  breezy  tent, 
His  fragrant  Sybaris,  than  I,  when  first 
From  the  dark  green  thy  yellow  circles  burst. 

Then  think  I  of  deep  shadows  on  the  grass. 
Of  meadows  where  in  sun  the  cattle  graze, 

Where,  as  the  breezes  pass. 
The  gleaming  rushes  lean  a  thousand  ways, 
Of  leaves  that  slumber  in  a  cloudy  mass, 
Or  whiten  in  the  wind,  of  waters  blue 

That  from  the  distance  sparkle  through 
Some  woodland  gap,  and  of  a  sky  above. 
Where  one  white  cloud  like  a  stray  lamb  doth  move. 

My  childhood's  earliest  thoughts  are  linked  with  thee; 
The  sight  of  thee  calls  back  the  robin's  song. 

Who,  from  the  dark  old  tree 
Beside  the  door,  sang  clearly  all  day  long, 

And  I,  secure  in  childish  piety, 
Listened  as  if  I  heard  an  angel  sing 

With  news  from  heaven,  which  he  could  bring 
Fresh  every  day  to  my  untainted  ears, 
When  birds  and  flowers  and  I  were  happy  peers. 

How  like  a  prodigal  doth  nature  seem, 
When  thou,  for  all  thy  gold,  so  common  art! 


170  American  Literature 

Thou  teachest  me  to  deem 
More  sacredly  of  every  human  heart, 

Since  each  reflects  in  joy  its  scanty  gleam 
'     Of  heaven,  and  could  some  wondrous  secret  show 
Did  we  but  pay  the  love  we  owe. 
And  with  a  child's  undoubting  wisdom  look 
On  all  these  living  pages  of  God's  book. 

The  Courtin' 
(From  The  Biglow  Papers — Second  Series — Introduction) 

God  makes  sech  nights,  all  white  an'  still 

Fur'z  you  can  look  or  listen. 
Moonshine  an'  snow  on  field  an'  hill, 

All  silence  an'  all  glisten. 

Zekle  crep'  up  quite  unbeknown 
An'  peeked  in  thru'  the  winder, 

An'  there  sot  Huldy  all  alone, 
'Ith  no  one  nigh  to  hender. 

A  fireplace  filled  the  room's  one  side 
With  half  a  cord  o'  wood  in, — 

There  warn't  no  stoves  (tell  comfort  died) 
To  bake  ye  to  a  puddin'. 

The  wa'nut  logs  shot  sparkles  out 
Towards  the  pootiest,  bless  her ! 

An'  leetle  flames  danced  all  about 
The  chiny  on  the  dresser. 

Agin  the  chimbley  crook-necks  hung. 

An'  in  amongst  'em  rusted 
The  ole  queen's-arm  thet  gran'ther  Young 

Fetched  back  from  Concord  busted. 

The  very  room,  coz  she  was  in. 
Seemed  warm  from  floor  to  ceilin', 

An'  she  looked  full  ez  rosy  agin 
Ez  the  apples  she  was  peeKn'. 


Writers  of  the  Mid- Century  and  After     171 

'Twas  kin'  o'  kingdom-come  to  look 

On  sech  a  blessed  cretur, 
A  dogrose  blushin'  to  a  brook 

Ain't  modester  nor  sweeter. 

He  was  six  foot  o'  man,  A  i, 

Clear  grit  an'  human  natur'; 
None  couldn't  quicker  pitch  a  ton 

Nor  dror  a  furrer  straighter. 

Hed  sparked  it  with  full  twenty  gals, 
Hed  squired  'em,  danced  'em,  druv  'em 

Fust  this  one,  an'  then  thet,  by  spells — 
All  is,  he  couldn't  love  'em. 

But  long  o'  her  his  veins  'ould  run 

All  crinkly  like  curled  maple, 
The  side  she  breshed  felt  full  o'  sun 

Ez  a  south  slope  in  Ap'il. 

She  thought  no  v'ice  hed  sech  a  swing 

Ez  hisn  in  the  choir; 
My !  when  he  made  Ole  Hunderd  ring, 

She  knowed  the  Lord  was  nigher. 

An'  she'd  blush  scarlit,  right  in  prayer, 

When  her  new  meetin'-bunnet 
Felt  somehow  thru'  its  crown  a  pair 

O'  blue  eyes  sot  upon  it. 

Thet  night,  I  tell  ye,  she  looked  some! 

She  seemed  to  've  gut  a  new  soul, 
For  she  felt  sartin-sure  he'd  come. 

Down  to  her  very  shoe-sole. 

She  heered  a  foot,  an'  knowed  it  tu, 

A-raspin'  on  the  scraper, — 
All  ways  to  once  her  f eelins  flew 

Like  sparks  in  burnt-up  paper. 


17£  Arnerican  Literature 

He  kin'  o'  Titered  on  the  mat, 
Some  doubtfle  o'  the  sekle, 

His  heart  kep'  goin'  pity-pat, 
But  hern  went  pity  Zekle. 

An'  yit  she  gin  her  cheer  a  jerk 
Ez  though  she  wished  him  furder, 

An'  on  her  apples  kep'  to  work, 
Parin'  away  like  murder. 

"You  want  to  see  my  Pa,  I  s'pose?" 
"Wal  .  .  .  no  .  .  .  I  come  dasignin' "- 

"To  see  my  Ma?     She's  sprinklin'  clo'es 
Agin  to-morrer's  i'nin. " 

To  say  why  gals  acts  so  or  so, 
Or  don't,  would  be  persumin'; 

Mebby  to  mean  yes  an'  say  no 
Comes  nateral  to  women. 

He  stood  a  spell  on  one  foot  fust, 
Then  stood  a  spell  on  t'other, 

An'  on  which  one  he  felt  the  wust 
He  could't  ha'  told  ye  nuther. 

Says  he,  "I'd  better  call  agin"; 

Says  she,  "Think  Kkely,  Mister": 
Thet  last  word  pricked  him  like  a  pin, 

An'  .  .  .  Wal,  he  up  an'  kist  her. 

f 
When  Ma  bimeby  upon  'em  slips, 

Huldy  sot  pale  ez  ashes. 
All  kin'  o'  smily  roun'  the  lips 

An'  teary  round'  the  lashes. 

For  she  was  jes'  the  quiet  kind 

Whose  naturs  never  vary, 
Like  streams  that  keep  a  summer  mind 

Snowhid  in  Jenooary. 


Writers  of  the  Mid- Century  and  After     173 

The  blood  clost  roun'  her  heart  felt  glued 

Too  tight  for  all  expressin' 
Tell  mother  see  how  metters  stood, 

An'  gin  'em  both  her  blessin'. 

Then  her  red  come  back  like  the  tide 

Down  to  the  Bay  o'  Fundy, 
An'  all  I  know  is  they  was  cried 

In  meetin'  come  nex'  Sunday. 

A  Letter  from  Mr.  Ezekiel  Biglow 
(From  The  Biglow  Papers — First  Series — No.  I) 

Thrash  away,  you'll  hev  to  rattle 

On  them  kittle-drums  o'  yourn, 
'Tain't  a  knowin'  kind  o'  cattle 

Thet  is  ketched  with  moldy  com; 
Put  in  stiff,  you  fifer  feller, 

Let  folks  see  how  spry  you  be — 
Guess  you'll  toot  till  you  are  yeller 

'Fore  you  git  a-hold  o'  me ! 

Thet  air  flag's  a  lee  tie  rotten, 

Hope  it  ain't  your  Sunday's  best — 
Fact !  it  takes  a  sight  o'  cotton 

To  stuff  out  a  soger's  chest; 
Sence  we  farmers  hev  to  pay  fer't 

Ef  you  must  wear  humps  like  these 
S'posin,  you  should  try  salt  hay  fer't, 

It  would  du  ez  slick  ez  grease. 

'Twouldn't  suit  them  Southun  fellers, 

They're  a  drefHe  graspin'  set, 
We  must  oilers  blow  the  bellers 

Wen  they  want  their  irons  het; 
Maybe  it's  all  right  ez  preachin', 

But  my  narves  it  kind  o'  grates. 
Wen  I  see  the  overreachin' 

O'  them  nigger-drivin'  States. 


174  American  Literature 

Them  thet  rule  us,  them  slave-traders, 

Hain't  they  cut  a  thunderin'  swath 
(Helped  by  Yankee  renegaders), 

Thru  the  vartu  o'  the  North ! 
We  begin  to  think  it's  natur 

To  take  sarse  an'  not  be  riled — 
Who'd  expect  to  see  a  tater 

All  on  eend  at  bein'  biled? 

Ez  fer  war,  I  call  it  murder — 

There  you  hev  it  plain  an'  flat; 
I  don't  want  to  go  no  furder 

Than  my  Testament  fer  that; 
God  hez  sed  so  plump  an'  fairly, 

It's  ez  long  ez  it  is  broad, 
An'  you've  gut  to  git  up  airly 

Ef  you  want  to  take  in  God. 

'Tain't  your  eppyletts  an'  feathers 

Make  the  thing  a  grain  more  right; 
'Tain't  a-follerin'  your  bell-wethers 

Will  excuse  ye  in  His  sight; 
Ef  you  take  a  sword  an'  dror  it, 

An'  go  stick  a  feller  thru, 
Guv'ment  ain't  to  answer  for  it, 

God'll  send  the  bill  to  you. 

Wut's  the  use  o'  meetin'-goin' 

Every  Sabbath,  wet  or  dry, 
Ef  it's  right  to  go  a-mowin' 

Feller-men  like  oats  an'  rye  ? 
I  dunno  but  wut  it's  pooty 

Trainin'  round  in  bobtail  coats — 
But  it's  curus  Christian  dooty 

This  'ere  cuttin'  folks's  throats. 

Thay  may  talk  o'  Freedom's  airy 

Tell  they're  pupple  in  the  face — • 
It's  a  grand  gret  cemetary 


\ 


Writers  of  the  Mid- Century  and  After     175 

Fer  the  barthrights  of  our  race; 
They  jest  want  this  Californy 

So's  to  lug  new  slave  States  in 
To  abuse  ye,  an'  to  scorn  ye, 

An'  to  plunder  ye  like  sin. 

Ain't  it  cute  to  see  a  Yankee 

Take  sech  everlastin'  pains, 
All  to  git  the  Devil's  thankee 

Helpin'  on  'em  weld  their  chains? 
Wy,  it's  jest  ez  clear  ez  figgers, 

Clear  ez  one  an'  one  make  two, 
Chaps  thet  make  black  slaves  o'  niggers 

Want  to  make  wite  slaves  o'  you. 

Tell  ye  jest  the  eend  I've  come  to 

Arter  cipherin'  plaguy  smart, 
An'  it  makes  a  handy  sum,  tu. 

Any  gump  could  larn  by  heart; 
Laborin'  man  an'  laborin'  woman 

Hev  one  glory  an'  one  shame. 
Ev'ythin'  thet's  done  inhuman 

Injers  all  on  'em  the  same. 

'Tain't  by  turnin'  out  to  hack  folks 

You're  agoin'  to  git  your  right 
Nor  by  lookin'  down  on  black  folks 

Coz  you're  put  upon  by  wite; 
Slavery  ain't  o'  nary  color, 

'Tain't  the  hide  thet  makes  it  wus, 
All  it  keers  fer  is  a  feller 

'S  jest  to  make  him  fill  his  pus. 

Want  to  tackle  me  in,  du  ye  ? 

I  expect  you'll  hev  to  wait; 
Wen  cold  lead  puts  daylight  thru  ye 

You'll  begin  to  kal'late; 
S'pose  the  crows  wun't  fall  to  pickin' 

All  the  carkiss  from  your  bones, 


176  American  Literature 

Coz  you  helped  to  give  a  lickin' 
To  them  poor  half-Spanish  drones? 

Jest  go  home  an'  ask  our  Nancy 

Wether  I'd  be  sech  a  goose 
Ez  to  jine  ye — guess  you'd  fancy 

The  etarnal  bung  wuz  loose ! 
She  wants  me  fer  home  consumption, 

Let  alone  the  hay's  to  mow — 
Ef  you're  arter  folks  o'  gumption, 

You've  a  darned  long  row  to  hoe. 

Take  them  editors  thet's  crowin' 
Like  a  cockerel  three  months  old — 

Don't  ketch  any  on  'em  goin', 
Though  they  he  so  blasted  bold; 

AinH  they  a  prime  lot  o'  fellers? 
^'Fore  they  think  on't  they  will  sprout 

(Like  a  peach  thet's  got  the  yellers), 
With  the  meanness  bustin'  out. 

Wal,  go  'long  to  help  'em  stealin' 
Bigger  pens  to  cram  with  slaves. 

Help  the  men  thet's  oilers  dealin' 
Insults  on  your  fathers'  graves; 

Help  the  strong  to  grind  the  feeble, 
,  Help  the  many  agin  the  few, 

Help  the  men  that  call  your  people 
Witewashed  slaves  an'  peddlin'  crew? 

Massachusetts,  God  forgive  her. 

She's  a-kneelin'  with  the  rest. 
She,  thet  ough'  to  ha'  clung  ferever 

In  her  grand  old  eagle-nest; 
She  thet  ough'  to  stand  so  fearless 

Wile  the  wracks  are  round  her  hurled, 
Holdin'  up  a  beacon  peerless 

To  the  oppressed  of  all  the  world  1 


Writers  of  the  Mid- Century  and  After     177 

Hain't  they  sold  your  colored  seamen? 

Hain't  they  made  your  env'ys  wiz? 
Wufll  make  ye  act  like  freemen  ? 

Wufll  git  your  dander  riz  ? 
Come,  I'll  tell  ye  wut  I'm  thinkin' 

Is  our  dooty  in  this  fix, 
They'd  ha'  done  't  ez  quick  ez  winkin' 

In  the  days  o'  seventy-six. 

Clang  the  bells  in  every  steeple, 

Call  all  true  men  to  disown 
The  tradoocers  of  our  people. 

The  enslavers  o'  their  own; 
Let  our  dear  old  Bay  State  proudly 

Put  the  trumpet  to  her  mouth, 
Let  her  ring  this  messidge  loudly 

In  the  ears  of  all  the  South — 

''I'll  return  ye  good  fer  evil 

Much  ez  we  frail  mortils  can, 
But  I  wun't  go  help  the  Devil 

Makin'  man  the  cuss  o'  man; 
Call  me  coward,  call  me  traiter, 

Jest  ez  suits  your  mean  idees — 
Here  I  stand  a  tyrant-hater, 

An'  the  friend  o'  God  an'  Peace !" 

Ef  I'd  my  way  I  hed  ruther 

We  should  go  to  work  an'  part — 
They  take  one  way,  we  take  t'other — 

Guess  it  wouldn't  break  my  heart; 
Man  hed  ought  to  put  asunder 

Them  thet  God  has  noways  jined; 
An'  I  shouldn't  gretly  wonder 

Ef  there's  thousands  o'  my  mind. 

7.  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes  (i  809-1 894),  "  the  last  leaf  " 
upon  the  tree  which  had  borne  the  fruit  of  the  golden  age  of 
American  literature,  was  a  graduate  of  Harvard  College  and 


178  Ainerican  Literature 

afterward  of  the  Harvard  Medical  School.  He  was  professor 
of  anatomy  and  physiology  at  Harvard  for  thirty-five  years. 
As  a  writer  of  occasional  poems  he  has  had  no  equal.  In 
poetry,  light  verse  was  his  forte;  in  prose  the  conversational 
paper.  He  published  the  first  of  his  conversational  papers, 
under  the  title  of  The  Autocrat  of  the  Breakfast-Table,  in  the 
Atlantic  Monthly  in  1857,  just  after  its  foundation,  and  the  last, 
in  the  same  magazine  under  the  title  Over  the  Tea-Cups,  in 
1890.  In  1886  the  universities  of  Oxford,  Cambridge,  and 
Edinburgh  conferred  upon  him  the  doctor's  degree. 

The  Chambered  Nautilus  (Holmes's  favorite) 

This  is  the  ship  of  pearl,  which,  poets  feign, 

Sails  the  unshadowed  main, — 

The  venturous  bark  that  flings 
On  the  sweet  summer  wind  its  purpled  wings, 
In  gulfs  enchanted,  where  the  Siren  sings, 

And  coral  reefs  lie  bare, 
Where  the  cold  sea-maids  rise  to  sun  their  streaming  hair. 

Its  webs  of  living  gauze  no  more  unfurl; 

Wrecked  is  the  ship  of  pearl ! 

And  every  chambered  cell. 
Where  its  dim  dreaming  life  was  wont  to  dwell, 
As  the  frail  tenant  shaped  his  growing  shell, 

Before  thee  lies  revealed, — 
Its  irised  ceiling  rent,  its  sunless  crypt  unsealed ! 

Year  after  year  beheld  the  silent  toil 

That  spread  his  lustrous  coil; 

Still,  as  the  spiral  grew. 
He  left  the  past  year's  dwelling  for  the  new, 
Stole  with  soft  step  its  shining  archway  through, 

Built  up  its  idle  door. 
Stretched  in  his  last-found  home,  and  knew  the  old  no  more. 

Thanks  for  the  heavenly  message  brought  by  thee. 
Child  of  the  wondering  sea, 
Cast  from  her  lap,  forlorn ! 


Writers  of  the  Mid- Century  and  After     179 

From  thy  dead  lips  a  clearer  note  is  born 
Than  ever  Triton  blew  from  wreathed  horn ! 

While  on  mine  ear  it  rings, 
Through  the  deep  caves  of  thought  I  hear  a  voice  that  sings: 

Build  thee  more  stately  mansions,  O  my  soul, 

As  the  swift  seasons  roll ! 

Leave  thy  low- vaulted  past ! 
Let  each  new  temple,  nobler  than  the  last. 
Shut  thee  from  heaven  with  a  dome  more  vast, 

Till  thou  at  length  art  free, 
Leaving  thine  outgrown  shell  by  life's  unresting  sea ! 

The  Height  of  the  Ridiculous 

I  wrote  some  lines  once  on  a  time 

In  wondrous  merry  mood, 
And  thought,  as  usual,  men  would  say 

They  were  exceeding  good. 

They  were  so  queer,  so  very  queer, 

I  laughed  as  I  would  die; 
Albeit,  in  the  general  way, 

A  sober  man  am  I. 

I  called  my  servant,  and  he  came; 

How  kind  it  was  of  him, 
To  mind  a  slender  man  like  me. 

He  of  the  mighty  limb ! 

"These  to  the  printer,"  I  exclaimed, 

And,  in  my  humorous  way, 
I  added  (as  a  trifling  jest), 

"There'll  be  the  devil  to  pay." 
« 

He  took  the  paper,  and  I  watched. 

And  saw  him  peep  within; 
At  the  first  line  he  read,  his  face 

Was  all  upon  the  grin. 


180  American  Literature 

He  read  the  next;  the  grin  grew  broad, 

And  shot  from  ear  to  ear; 
He  read  the  third ;  a  chuckling  noise 

I  now  began  to  hear. 

The  fourth;  he  broke  into  a  roar; 

The  fifth;  his  waistband  spht; 
The  sixth;  he  burst  five  buttons  off, 

And  tumbled  in  a  fit. 

Ten  days  and  nights,  with  sleepless  eye, 

I  watched  that  wretched  man, 
And  since,  I  never  dare  to  write 

As  funny  as  I  can. 

The  Deacon's  Masterpiece 

or,  the  wonderful  "one-hoss  shay. "    a  logical  story 

Have  you  heard  of  the  wonderful  one-hoss  shay. 

That  was  built  in  such  a  logical  way 

It  ran  a  hundred  years  to  a  day. 

And  then,  of  a  sudden,  it — ah,  but  stay, 

I'll  tell  you  what  happened  without  delay, 

Scaring  the  parson  into  fits. 

Frightening  people  out  of  their  wits, — 

Have  you  ever  heard  of  that,  I  say? 

Seventeen  hundred  and  fifty-five, 
Georgius  Secundus  was  then  alive, — 
Snuffy  old  drone  from  the  German  hive. 
That  was  the  year  when  Lisbon-town 
Saw  the  earth  open  and  gulp  her  down. 
And  Braddock's  army  was  done  so  brown, 
Left  without  a  scalp  to  its  crown. 
It  was  on  the  terrible  Earthquake-day 
That  the  Deacon  finished  the  one-hoss  shay. 

Now  in  building  of  chaises,  I  tell  you  what, 
There  is  always  somewhere  a  weakest  spot, — 


Writers  of  the  Mid- Century  and  After    181 

In  hub,  tire,  felloe,  in  spring  or  thill, 

In  panel  or  cross-bar,  or  floor,  or  sill, 

In  screw,  bolt,  thoroughbrace, — lurking  still, 

Find  it  somewhere  you  must  and  will, — 

Above  or  below,  or  within  or  without, — 

And  that's  the  reason,  beyond  a  doubt. 

That  a  chaise  breaks  down,  but  doesn't  wear  out. 

But  the  Deacon  swore  (as  Deacons  do. 
With  an  ''I  dew  vum,"  or  an  ^'I  tell  yeou,^^) 
He  would  build  one  shay  to  beat  the  taown 
'n  the  Keounty  'n'  all  the  Ken  try  raoun' ; 
It  should  be  so  built  that  it  couldn^  break  daoun: 
— "Fur,"  said  the  Deacon,  *''t's  mighty  plain 
Thut  the  weakes'  place  mus'  stan'  the  strain; 
'n'  the  way  t'  fix  it,  uz  I  maintain. 

Is  only  jest 
T'  make  that  place  uz  strong  uz  the  rest." 

So  the  Deacon  inquired  of  the  village  folk 

Where  he  could  find  the  strongest  oak. 

That  couldn't  be  split  nor  bent  nor  broke, — 

That  was  for  spokes  and  floor  and  sills; 

He  sent  for  lancewood  to  make  the  thills. 

The  cross-bars  were  ash,  from  the  straightest  trees, 

The  panels  of  white-wood,  that  cuts  like  cheese. 

But  lasts  like  iron  for  things  like  these; 

The  hubs  of  logs  from  the  "Settler's  ellum," — 

Last  of  its  timber, — they  couldn't  sell  'em, 

Never  an  axe  had  seen  their  chips, 

And  the  wedges  flew  from  between  their  lips, 

Their  blunt  ends  frizzled  like  celery  tips; 

Step  and  prop-iron,  bolt  and  screw, 

Spring,  tire,  axle,  and  linch-pin  too, 

Steel  of  the  finest,  bright  and  blue; 

Thoroughbrace  bison-skin,  thick  and  wide; 

Boot,  top,  dasher,  from  tough  old  hide 

Found  in  the  pit  when  the  tanner  died. 

That  was  the  way  he  "put  her  through." 

'' There!"  said  the  Deacon,  "naow  she'll  dew!" 


182  American  Literature 

Do !    I  tell  you,  I  rather  guess 
She  was  a  wonder,  and  nothing  less ! 
Colts  grew  horses,  beards  turned  gray, 
Deacon  and  deaconess  dropped  away, 
Children  and  grandchildren — where  were  they? 
But  there  stood  the  stout  old  one-hoss  shay 
As  fresh  as  on  Lisbon-earthquake-day ! 

Eighteen  Hundred; — it  came  and  found 
The  Deacon's  masterpiece  strong  and  sound. 
Eighteen  hundred  increased  by  ten; — 
"Hahnsum  kerridge"  they  called  it  then. 
Eighteen  hundred  and  twenty  came; — 
Running  as  usual;  much  the  same. 
Thirty  and  forty  at  last  arrive, 
And  then  come  fifty,  and  fifty-five. 

Little  of  all  we  value  here 

Wakes  on  the  morn  of  its  hundredth  year 

Without  both  feeling  and  looking  queer. 

In  fact,  there's  nothing  that  keeps  its  youth, 

So  far  as  I  know,  but  a  tree  and  truth. 

(This  is  a  moral  that  runs  at  large; 

Take  it. — You're  welcome. — No  extra  charge.) 

First  of  November, — the  Earthquake-day — 
There  are  traces  of  age  in  the  one-hoss  shay, 
A  general  flavor  of  mild  decay. 
But  nothing  local,  as  one  may  say. 
There  couldn't  be, — for  the  Deacon's  art 
Had  made  it  so  Hke  in  every  part 
That  there  wasn't  a  chance  for  one  to  start. 
For  the  wheels  were  just  as  strong  as  the  thills, 
And  the  floor  was  just  as  strong  as  the  sills. 
And  the  panels  just  as  strong  as  the  floor, 
And  the  whipple-tree  neither  less  nor  more, 
And  the  back  cross-bar  as  strong  as  the  fore. 
And  spring  and  axle  and  hub  encore. 
And  yet,  as  a  whole,  it  is  past  a  doubt 
In  another  hour  it  will  be  worn  out! 


Writers  of  the  Mid- Century  and  After     183 

First  of  November,  'Fifty-five  ! 

This  morning  the  parson  takes  a  drive. 

Now,  small  boys,  get  out  of  the  way ! 

Here  comes  the  wonderful  one-hoss  shay, 

Drawn  by  a  rat-tailed,  ewe-necked  bay. 

^'Huddup  !"  said  the  parson. — Off  went  they. 

The  parson  was  working  his  Sunday's  text, — 

Had  got  to  fifthly^  and  stopped  perplexed 

At  what  the — Moses — was  coming  next. 

All  at  once  the  horse  stood  still. 

Close  by  the  meet'n'-house  on  the  hill. 

— First  a  shiver,  and  then  a  thrill. 

Then  something  decidedly  like  a  spill, — 

And  the  parson  was  sitting  upon  a  rock. 

At  half-past  nine  by  the  meet'n'-house  clock, — 

Just  the  hour  of  the  Earthquake  shock ! 

— ^What  do  you  think  the  parson  found, 
When  he  got  up  and  stared  around  ? 
The  poor  old  chaise  in  a  heap  or  mound, 
As  if  it  had  been  to  the  mill  and  ground! 
You  see,  of  course,  if  you're  not  a  dunce, 
How  it  went  to  pieces  all  at  once, — 
All  at  once,  and  nothing  first, — 
Just  as  bubbles  do  when  they  burst. 

End  of  the  wonderful  one-hoss  shay. 
Logic  is  logic.     That's  all  I  say. 

(From  The  Autocrat  of  the  Breakfast-Table,  VI) 

Sin  has  many  tools,  but  a  lie  is  the  handle  which  fits 
them  all. 

1  think.  Sir, — said  the  divinity-student, — you  must 

intend  that  for  one  of  the  sayings  of  the  Seven  Wise  Men 
of  Boston  you  were  speaking  of  the  other  day. 

I  thank  you,  my  yt)ung  friend, — was  my  reply, — but 
I  must  say  something  better  than  that,  before  I  could 
pretend  to  fill  out  the  number. 


184  American  Literature 

-The  schoolmistress  wanted  to  know  how  many  of 


these  sayings  there  were  on  record,  and  what,  and  by 
whom  said. 

Why,  let  us  see, — there  is  that  one  of  Benjamin 

FrankUn,  "the  great  Bostonian,"  after  whom  this  lad  was 
named.  To  be  sure,  he  said  a  great  many  wise  things, — 
and  I  don't  feel  sure  he  didn't  borrow  this, — he  speaks  as 
if  it  were  old.     But  then  he  apphed  it  so  neatly ! — 

*'He  that  has  once  done  you  a  kindness  will  be  more 
ready  to  do  you  another  than  he  whom  you  yourself  have 
obliged." 

Then  there  is  that  glorious  Epicurean  paradox,  uttered 
by  my  friend,  the  Historian,  in  one  of  his  flashing  mo- 
ments : — 

*'Give  us  the  luxuries  of  life,  and  we  will  dispense  with 
its  necessaries." 

To  these  must  certainly  be  added  that  other  saying  of 
one  of  the  wittiest  of  men : — 

"Good  Americans,  when  they  die,  go  to  Paris." 

The  divinity-student  looked  grave  at  this,  but  said 

nothing. 

The  schoolmistress  spoke  out,  and  said  she  didn't  think 
the  wit  meant  any  irreverence.  It  was  only  another  way 
of  saying,  Paris  is  a  heavenly  place  after  New  York  or 
Boston. 

A  jaunty-looking  person,  who  had  come  in  with  the 
young  fellow  they  call  John, — evidently  a  stranger, — said 
there  was  one  more  wise  man's  saying  that  he  had  heard; 
it  was  about  our  place,  but  he  didn't  know  who  said  it. 
— A  civil  curiosity  was  manifested  by  the  company  to 
hear  the  fourth  wise  saying.  I  heard  him  distinctly  whis- 
pering to  the  young  fellow  who  brought  him  to  dinner, 
Shall  I  tell  it?  To  which  the  answer  was.  Go  ahead! — 
Well, — he  said, — this  was  what  I  heard: — 

"Boston  State-House  is  the  hub  of  the  solar  system. 
You  couldn't  pry  that  out  of  a  Boston  man,  if  you  had  the 
tire  of  all  creation  straightened  out  for  a  crowbar." 

Sir, — said  I, — I  am  gratified  with  your  remark.  It  ex- 
presses with  pleasing  vivacity  that  which  I  have  sometimes 


Writers  of  the  Mid- Century  and  After     185 

heard  uttered  with  malignant  duhiess.  The  satire  of  the 
remark  is  essentially  true  of  Boston, — and  of  all  other 
considerable — and  inconsiderable — places  with  which  I 
have  had  the  privilege  of  being  acquainted.  Cockneys 
think  London  is  the  only  place  in  the  world.  Frenchmen 
— you  remember  the  line  about  Paris,  the  Court,  the  Worlds 
etc. — I  recollect  well,  by  the  way,  a  sign  in  that  city  which 
ran  thus:  ''Hotel  de  TUnivers  et  des  Etats  Unis";  and  as 
Paris  is  the  universe  to  a  Frenchman,  of  course  the  United 
States  are  outside  of  it. — ''See  Naples  and  then  die." — It 
is  quite  as  bad  with  smaller  places.  I  have  been  about, 
lecturing,  you  know,  and  have  found  the  following  propo- 
sitions to  hold  true  of  all  of  them: 

1.  The  axis  of  the  earth  sticks  out  visibly  through  the 
center  of  each  and  every  town  or  city. 

2.  If  more  than  fifty  years  have  passed  since  its  founda- 
tion, it  is  afTectionately  styled  by  the  inhabitants  the 

^^ good  old  town  of" (whatever  its  name  may  happen 

to  be). 

3.  Every  collection  of  its  inhabitants  that  comes  to- 
gether to  listen  to  a  stranger  is  invariably  declared  to  be 
a  "remarkably  intelligent  audience." 

4.  The  climate  of  the  place  is  particularly  favorable  to 
longevity. 

5.  It  contains  several  persons  of  vast  talent  little  known 
to  the  world.  (One  or  two  of  them,  you  may  perhaps 
chance  to  remember,  sent  short  pieces  to  the  "PactoHan" 
some  time  since,  which  were  "respectfully  declined.") 

Boston  is  just  like  the  other  places  of  its  size; — only, 
perhaps,  considering  its  excellent  fish-market,  paid  fire- 
department,  superior  monthly  publications,  and  correct 
habit  of  spelling  the  English  language,  it  has  some  right 
to  look  down  on  the  mob  of  cities.  I'll  tell  you,  though, 
if  you  want  to  know  it,  what  is  the  real  offense  of  Boston. 
It  drains  a  large  water-shed  of  its  intellect,  and  will  not 
itself  be  drained.  If  it  would  only  send  away  its  first-rate 
men,  instead  of  its  second-rate  ones  (no  offense  to  well- 
known  exceptions,  of  which  we  are  always  proud,)  we  should 
be  spared  such  epigrammatic  remarks  as  that  which  the  gen- 


186  American  Literature 

tleman  has  quoted.  There  can  never  be  a  real  metropolis 
in  this  country,  until  the  biggest  center  can  drain  the  lesser 
ones  of  their  talent  and  wealth. — I  have  observed,  by  the 
way,  that  the  people  who  really  Uve  in  two  great  cities  are 
by  no  means  so  jealous  of  each  other,  as  are  those  of  smaller 
cities  situated  within  the  intellectual  basin,  or  suction- 
range,  of  one  large  one,  of  the  pretensions  of  any  other. 
Don't  you  see  why?  Because  their  promising  young 
author  and  rising  lawyer  and  large  capitaHst  have  been 
drained  off  to  the  neighboring  big  city, — their  prettiest 
girl  has  been  exported  to  the  same  market;  all  their  am- 
bition points  there,  and  all  their  thin  gilding  of  glory  comes 
from  there.     I  hate  little  toad-eating  cities. 

Would  I  be  so  good  as  to  specify  any  particular 

example? — Oh, — an  example?  Did  you  ever  see  a  bear- 
trap?  Never?  Well,  shouldn't  you  like  to  see  me  put 
my  foot  into  one?  With  sentiments  of  the  highest  con- 
sideration I  must  beg  leave  to  be  excused. 

Besides,  some  of  the  smaller  cities  are  charming.  If 
they  have  an  old  church  or  two,  a  few  stately  mansions  of 
former  grandees,  here  and  there  an  old  dwelling  with  the 
second  story  projecting  (for  the  convenience  of  shooting 
the  Indians  knocking  at  the  front-door  with  their  toma- 
hawks),— if  they  have,  scattered  about,  those  mighty 
square  houses  built  something  more  than  half  a  century 
ago,  and  standing  like  architectural  boulders  dropped  by 
the  former  diluvium  of  wealth,  whose  refluent  wave  has 
left  them  as  its  monument, — if  they  have  gardens  with 
elbowed  apple-trees  that  push  their  branches  over  the 
high  board-fence  and  drop  their  fruit  on  the  side-walk,— 
if  they  have  a  Uttle  grass  in  the  side-streets,  enough  to 
betoken  quiet  without  proclaiming  decay, — I  think  I  could 
go  to  pieces,  after  my  life's  work  were  done,  in  one  of  those 
tranquil  places,  as  sweetly  as  in  any  cradle  that  an  old 
man  may  be  rocked  to  sleep  in.  I  visit  such  spots  always 
with  infinite  delight.  My  friend,  the  Poet,  says,  that 
rapidly  growing  towns  are  most  unfavorable  to  the  imag- 
inative and  reflective  faculties.  Let  a  man  live  in  one  of 
these  old  quiet  places,  he  says,  and  the  wine  of  his  soul, 


Writers  of  the  Mid- Century  and  After    187 

which  is  kept  thick  and  turbid  by  the  rattle  of  busy  streets, 
settles,  and,  as  you  hold  it  up,  you  may  see  the  sun  through 
it  by  day  and  the  stars  by  night. 

Do  I  think  that  the  little  villages  have  the  conceit 

of  the  great  towns? — I  don't  beUeve  there  is  much  differ- 
ence. You  know  how  they  read  Pope's  line  in  the  smallest 
town  in  our  State  of  Massachusetts? — Well,  they  read  it: 

^'All  are  but  parts  of  one  stupendous  Hull  !" 

What  I  wanted  to  say  about  books  is  this:  that  there 
are  times  in  which  every  active  mind  feels  itself  above  any 
and  all  human  books. 

1  think  a  man  must  have  a  good  opinion  of  him- 
self, Sir, — said  the  divinity-student, — who  should  feel  him- 
self above  Shakespeare  at  any  time. 

My  young  friend, — I  replied, — the  man  who  is  never 
conscious  of  any  state  of  feehng  or  of  intellectual  effort 
entirely  beyond  expression  by  any  form  of  words  what- 
soever is  a  mere  creature  of  language.  I  can  hardly  be- 
lieve there  are  any  such  men.  Why,  think  for  a  moment 
of  the  power  of  music.  The  nerves  that  make  us  alive  to 
it  spread  out  (so  the  Professor  tells  me)  in  the  most  sensi- 
tive region  of  the  marrow,  just  where  it  is  widening  to  run 
upwards  into  the  hemispheres.  It  has  its  seat  in  the  region 
of  sense  rather  than  of  thought.  Yet  it  produces  a  con- 
tinuous and,  as  it  were,  logical  sequence  of  emotional  and 
intellectual  changes;  but  how  different  from  trains  of 
thought  proper !  how  entirely  beyond  the  reach  of  sym- 
bols!— Think  of  human  passions  as  compared  with  all 
phrases !  Did  you  ever  hear  of  a  man's  growing  lean  by 
the  reading  of  "Romeo  and  JuKet,"  or  blowing  his  brains 
out  because  Desdemona  was  mahgned?  There  are  a  good 
many  symbols,  even,  that  are  more  expressive  than  words. 
I  remember  a  young  wife  who  had  to  part  with  her  husband 
for  a  time.  She  did  not  write  a  mournful  poem;  indeed, 
she  was  a  silent  person,  and  perhaps  hardly  said  a  word 
about  it;  but  she  quietly  turned  of  a  deep  orange  color 
with  jaundice.     A  great  many  people  in  this  world  have 


188  American  Literature 

but  one  form  of  rhetoric  for  their  profoundest  experiences, 
— namely,  to  waste  away  and  die.  When  a  man  can  ready 
his  paroxysm  of  feeUng  is  passing.  When  he  can  read,  his 
thought  has  slackened  its  hold. — You  talk  about  reading 
Shakespeare,  using  him  as  an  expression  for  the  highest 
intellect,  and  you  wonder  that  any  common  person  should 
be  so  presumptuous  as  to  suppose  his  thought  can  rise 
above  the  text  which  lies  before  him.  But  think  a  mo- 
ment. A  child's  reading  of  Shakespeare  is  one  thing,  and 
Coleridge's  or  Schlegel's  reading  of  him  is  another.  The 
saturation-point  of  each  mind  differs  from  that  of  every 
other.  But  I  think  it  is  as  true  for  the  small  mind  which 
can  only  take  up  a  little  as  for  the  great  one  which  takes 
up  much,  that  the  suggested  trains  of  thought  and  feeling 
ought  always  to  rise  above — not  the  author,  but  the 
reader's  mental  version  of  the  author,  whoever  he  may  be. 

I  think  most  readers  of  Shakespeare  sometimes  find 
themselves  thrown  into  exalted  mental  conditions  Hke 
those  produced  by  music.  Then  they  may  drop  the  book, 
to  pass  at  once  into  the  region  of  thought  without  words. 
We  may  happen  to  be  very  dull  folks,  you  and  I,  and  prob- 
ably are,  unless  there  is  some  particular  reason  to  suppose 
the  contrary.  But  we  get  gUmpses  now  and  then  of  a 
sphere  of  spiritual  possibilities,  where  we,  dull  as  we  are 
now,  may  sail  in  vast  circles  round  the  largest  compass  of 
earthly  intelligences. 

1  confess  there  are  times  when  I  feel  like  the  friend 

I  mentioned  to  you  some  time  ago, — I  hate  the  very  sight 
of  a  book.  Sometimes  it  becomes  almost  a  physical  ne- 
cessity to  talk  out  what  is  in  the  mind,  before  putting  any- 
thing else  into  it.  It  is  very  bad  to  have  thoughts  and 
feelings,  which  were  meant  to  come  out  in  talk,  strike  in, 
as  they  say  of  some  complaints  that  ought  to  show  out- 
wardly. 

I  always  believed  in  life  rather  than  in  books.  I  sup- 
pose every  day  of  earth,  with  its  hundred  thousand  deaths 
and  something  more  of  births, — with  its  loves  and  hates, 
its  triumphs  and  defeats,  its  pangs  and  blisses,  has  more 
of  humanity  in  it  than  all  the  books  that  were  ever  written, 


Writers  of  the  Mid- Century  and  After     189 

put  together.  I  believe  the  flowers  growing  at  this  mo- 
ment send  up  more  fragrance  to  heaven, than  was  ever 
exhaled  from  all  the  essences  ever  distilled. 

Don't  I  read  up  various  matters  to  talk  about  at 

this  table  or  elsewhere  ? — No,  that  is  the  last  thing  I  would 
do.  I  will  tell  you  my  rule.  Talk  about  those  subjects 
you  have  had  long  in  your  mind,  and  listen  to  what  others 
say  about  subjects  you  have  studied  but  recently.  Knowl- 
edge and  timber  shouldn't  be  much  used  till  they  are  sea- 
soned. 

Physiologists  and  metaphysicians  have  had   their 

attention  turned  a  good  deal  of  late  to  the  automatic  and 
involuntary  actions  of  the  mind.  Put  an  idea  into  your  in- 
telligence and  leave  it  there  an  hour,  a  day,  a  year,  without 
ever  having  occasion  to  refer  to  it.  When,  at  last,  you 
return  to  it,  you  do  not  find  it  as  it  was  when  acquired.  It 
has  domiciliated  itself,  so  to  speak, — become  at  home, — 
entered  into  relations  with  your  other  thoughts  and  inte- 
grated itself  with  the  whole  fabric  of  the  mind. — Or  take 
a  simple  and  familiar  example.  You  forget  a  name,  in 
conversation, — go  on  talking,  without  making  any  effort 
to  recall  it, — and  presently  the  mind  evolves  it  by  its  own 
involuntary  and  unconscious  action,  while  you  were  pur- 
suing another  train  of  thought,  and  the  name  rises  of  itself 
to  your  lips. 

There  are  some  curious  observations  I  should  hke  to 
make  about  the  mental  machinery,  but  I  think  we  are 
getting  rather  didactic. 

^I  should  be  gratified,  if  Benjamin  Franklin  would 

let  me  know  something  of  his  progress  in  the  French  lan- 
guage. I  rather  hked  that  exercise  he  read  us  the  other 
day,  though  I  must  confess  I  should  hardly  dare  to  trans- 
late it,  for  fear  some  people  in  a  remote  city  where  I  once 
lived  might  think  I  was  drawing  their  portraits. 

Yes,  Paris  is  a  famous  place  for  societies.     I  don't 

know  whether  the  piece  I  mentioned  from  the  French 
author  was  intended  simply  as  Natural  History,  or  whether 
there  was  not  a  little  malice  in  his  description.  At  any 
rate,  when  I  gave  my  translation  to  B.  F.  to  turn  back 


190  American  Literature 

again  into  French,  one  reason  was  that  I  thought  it  would 
sound  a  little  bald  in  English,  and  some  people  might  think 
it  was  meant  to  have  some  local  bearing  or  other, — which 
the  author,  of  course,  didn't  mean,  inasmuch  as  he  could 
not  be  acquainted  with  anything  on  this  side  the  water. 

[The  above  remarks  were  addressed  to  the  schoolmistress, 
to  whom  I  handed  the  paper  after  looking  it  over.  The 
divinity-student  came  and  read  over  her  shoulder, — very 
curious,  apparently,  but  his  eyes  wandered,  I  thought. 
Seeing  that  her  breathing  was  a  little  hurried  and  high,  or 
thoracic,  as  my  friend  the  Professor  calls  it,  I  watched  her 
a  little  more  closely. — It  is  none  of  my  business. — ^After 
all,  it  is  the  imponderables  that  move  the  world, — heat, 
electricity,  love. — Habet.] 

BIBLIOGRAPHY 

I.    Emerson 

For  Further  Illustration 
Prose: 

Compensation. 
Self-Reliance. 

Poems: 
Each  and  All. 
May-Day. 
The  Humble  Bee. 
The  Rhodora. 
The  Snow  Storm. 
Threnody. 

For  Collateral  Reading 

Alcott,  A.  Bronson:  Concord  Days. 

Swift,  Lindsay:  Brook  Farm.     (In  National  Studies  in  American 

Letters.) 
Whitman,  W. :  A  Visit  to  Emerson. 

By  Emerson's  Grave.     (In  Specimen  Days.) 

II.    Thoreau 

For  Further  Illustration 
Walden:  (Chapters  I  on  Economy  and  IV  on  Sounds  and  selec- 
tions in  Carpenter's  American  Prose), 


Writers  of  the  Mid- Century  and  After     191 

For  Collateral  Reading 

Alcott,    L.:     Thoreau's    Flute.      (In    Stedman's    An    American 

Anthology.) 
Channing,  W.  E. :  Tears  in  Spring.    {In  Stedmsm's  An  American 

Anthology.) 

III.  Hawthorne 

For  Further  Illustration 
Short  Stories: 
Ethan  Brand. 

Dr.  Heidegger's  Experiment. 
Mr.  Higgenboiham's  Catastrophe, 
The  Gentle  Boy. 
The  Gray  Champion. 
The  Great  Stone  Face. 
Novel: 

The  House  of  the  Seven  Gables. 

For  Collateral  Reading 

Alcott,  L.:  Hawthorne,  a  Sonnet.     (In  Stedman's  An  American 

Anthology.) 
Longfellow,  H.  W.:  Hawthorne. 

IV.  Longfellow 
For  Further  Illustration 

Hiawatha. 

Keramos. 

My  Lost  Youth. 

Tales  of  a  Wayside  Inn.     (See  Dramatization,  by  S.  E.  Simons 

and  C.  T.  Orr,  for  a  dramatization  of  these  poems.) 
The  Children's  Hour. 
The  Courtship  of  Miles  Standish. 
The  Old  Clock  on  the  Stairs. 

For  Collateral  Reading 

Bent,  S.  A.:    The  Wayside  Inn,  Its  History  and  Literature. 

Hawthorne,  N.:  Grandfather's  Chair,  II,  VIII. 

Whitman,  W. :  The  Death  of  Longfellow.     (In  Specimen  Days.) 


V.    Whittier 


For  Further  Illustration 
Burns. 
In  School  Days. 


192  American  Literature 

Snow-Bound.     (Compare  with  Goldsmith's  Deserted  Village  and 

Burns's  The  Cotter's  Saturday  Night.) 
The  Barefoot  Boy. 

The  Huskers.     (From  the  Songs  of  Labor.) 
The  Shoemakers. 
The  Tent  on  the  Beach.     (Compare  with  Longfellow's  Tales  of  a 

Wayside  Inn.) 
The  Trailing  Arbutus. 

For  Collateral  Reading 

Holmes,  O.  W.:  On  Whittier's  Birthday. 
Longfellow,  H.  W. :  The  Three  Silences  of  Molinos. 
Lowell,  J.  R.:   To  Whittier  on  His  Seventy-Fifth  Birthday. 
Pickard,  S.  T.:  Whittier-Land. 


VI.    Lowell 

For  Further  Illustration 

Biglow  Papers.     (Selected  poems.) 

Commemoration  Ode. 

Fable  for  Critics.     (Passage  on  himself.) 

The  First  Snowfall.    (Compare  with  Emerson's  The  Snow  Storm.) 

The  Present  Crisis. 

The  Singing  Leaves. 

For  Collateral  Reading 

Longfellow,  H.  W. :  The  Herons  of  Elmwood. 
Whittier,  J.  G.:  Welcome  to  Lowell. 


VII.    Holmes 

For  Further  Illustration 
Poems: 

The  Ballad  of  the  Oyster-Man, 

The  Broomstick  Train. 

Old  Ironsides. 

The  Last  Leaf. 
Prose: 

Over  the  Tea-Cups.     C  Paper  on  Old  Age.") 

The  Autocrat  of  the  Breakfast-Table.    ("Paper  on  Old  Age,"  VII. 
"  A  Walk  with  the  Schoolmistress,"  XII.) 

The  Poet  at  the  Breakfast-Table.     (Pp.  10-32.) 


Writers  of  the  Mid- Century  and  After    193 

For  Collateral  Reading 

Higginson,  T.  W.:  Old  Cambridge. 

Lowell,  J.  R. :  A  Fable  for  Critics.     (Passage  on  Holmes.) 

//.     Of  Lesser  Note 

Though  the  eminent  men  just  noticed  set  the  literary- 
standards  for  America  at  this  time,  during  the  entire 
period  of  their  supremacy,  lesser  men  were  making  for 
themselves  somewhat  of  name  and  fame  in  the  world  of 
literature.  As  the  frontier  was  pushed  farther  and  far- 
ther westward,  writers  sprang  up  here  and  there  and  every- 
where, atid  in  many  cases  their  contribution  was  so  dis- 
tinctive, so  unique,  so  ''American"  as  to  compel  attention 
not  only  from  the  reading  public  but  from  the  literary 
coterie  as  well.     The  leading  ones  are  noted  below. 

PROSE — FICTION 

I.  Harriet  Beecher  Stowe  (i 812-1896),  sister  of  Henry 
Ward  Beecher,  is  remembered  to-day  for  her  novel  Uncle 
Tom's  Cabin,  which  has  been  translated  into  more  than  forty 
languages.  In  reply  to  modern  criticism  concerning  this  work, 
Professor  Trent  says:  "  A  book  that  stirs  the  world,  and  is 
instrumental  in  bringing  on  a  civil  war  and  freeing  an  enslaved 
race  may  well  elicit  the  admiration  of  a  more  sophisticated 
generation."  "  It  was,"  says  Mr.  Hamilton  Wright  Mabie,  "  pri- 
marily the  dramatization  of  a  great  issue  in  terms  of  human 
conditions,  and  incidentally  a  moving  novel." 

TOPSY 

(From  Uncle  Tom's  Cabin,  Chapter  XX) 

One  morning,  while  Miss  Ophelia  was  busy  in  some  of 
her  domestic  cares,  St.  Clare's  voice  was  heard,  calling  her 
at  the  foot  of  the  stairs. 

"Come  down  here,  cousin;  I've  something  to  show  you." 
'^What  is  it?"  said  Miss  Ophelia,  coming  down,  with  her 
sewing  in  her  hand. 


194  American  Literature 

*'I've  made  a  purchase  for  your  department — see  here," 
said  St.  Clare;  and,  with  the  word,  he  pulled  along  a  Kttle 
negro  girl,  about  eight  or  nine  years  of  age. 

She  was  one  of  the  blackest  of  her  race;  and  her  round, 
shining  eyes,  glittering  as  glass  beads,  moved  with  quick 
and  restless  glances  over  everything  in  the  room.  Her 
mouth,  half  open  with  astonishment  at  the  wonders  of 
the  new  Mas^r's  parlor,  displayed  a  white  and  brilliant  set 
of  teeth.  Her  woolly  hair  was  braided  in  sundry  Uttle 
tails,  which  stuck  out  in  every  direction.  The  expression 
of  her  face  was  an  odd  mixture  of  shrewdness  and  cunning, 
over  which  was  oddly  drawn,  hke  a  kind  of  veil,  an  expres- 
sion of  the  most  doleful  gravity  and  solemnity.  She  was 
dressed  in  a  single  filthy,  ragged  garment,  made  of  bagging; 
and  stood  with  her  hands  demurely  folded  before  her. 
Altogether,  there  was  something  odd  and  goblin-like  about 
her  appearance, — something,  as  Miss  Opheha  afterwards 
said,  ''so  heathenish,"  as  to  inspire  that  good  lady  with 
utter  dismay;  and,  turning  to  St.  Clare,  she  said, — 

''Augustine,  what  in  the  world  have  you  brought  that 
thing  here  for?" 

"For  you  to  educate,  to  be  sure,  and  train  in  the  way 
she  should  go.  I  thought  she  was  rather  a  funny  specimen 
in  the  Jim  Crow  line.  Here,  Topsy,"  he  added,  giving  a 
whistle,  as  a  man  would  to  call  the  attention  of  a  dog, 
"give  us  a  song,  now,  and  show  us  some  of  your  dancing." 

The  black  glassy  eyes  glittered  with  a  kind  of  wicked 
drollery,  and  the  thing  struck  up,  in  a  clear  shrill  voice,  an 
odd  negro  melody,  to  which  she  kept  time  with  her  hands 
and  feet,  spinning  round,  clapping  her  hands,  knocking 
her  knees  together,  in  a  wild,  fantastic  sort  of  time,  and 
producing  in  her  throat  all  those  odd  guttural  sounds  which 
distinguish  the  native  music  of  her  race;  and  finally,  turn- 
ing a  sommerset  or  two,  and  giving  a  prolonged  closing  note, 
as  odd  and  unearthly  as  that  of  a  steam-whistle,  she  came 
suddenly  down  on  the  carpet,  and  stood  with  her  hands 
folded,  and  a  most  sanctimonious  expression  of  meekness 
and  solemnity  over  her  face,  only  broken  by  the  cunning 
glances  which  she  shot  askance  from  the  corners  of  her 
eyes. 


Writers  of  the  Mid- Century  and  After    195 

Miss  Ophelia  stood  silent,  perfectly  paralyzed  with 
amazement. 

St.  Clare,  like  a  mischievous  fellow  as  he  was,  appeared 
to  enjoy  her  astonishment;  and,  addressing  the  child  again, 
said, — 

*'Topsy,  this  is  your  new  mistress.  I'm  going  to  give 
you  up  to  her;  see,  now,  that  you  behave  yourself." 

"Yes,  Mas'r,"  said  Topsy,  with  sanctimonious  gravity, 
her  wicked  eyes  twinkling  as  she  spoke. 

"You're  going  to  be  good,  Topsy,  you  understand,"  said 
St.  Clare. 

"Oh,  yes,  Mas'r,"  said  Topsy,  with  another  twinkle, 
her  hands  still  devoutly  folded. 

"Now,  Augustine,  what  upon  earth  is  this  for  ?  "  said  Miss 
OpheHa. 

"Well,  .  .  .  cousin,"  said  St.  Clare,  drawing  her  aside, 
.  .  .  "the  fact  is,  this  concern  belonged  to  a  couple  of 
drunken  creatures  that  keep  a  low  restaurant  that  I  have 
to  pass  by  every  day,  and  I  was  tired  of  hearing  her  scream- 
ing, and  them  beating  and  swearing  at  her.  She  looked 
bright  and  funny,  too,  as  if  something  might  be  made  of 
her, — so  I  bought  her,  and  I'll  give  her  to  you.  Try,  now, 
and  give  her  a  good  orthodox  New  England  bringing  up, 
and  see  what  it'll  make  of  her.  You  know  I  haven't  any 
gift  that  way;  but  I'd  like  you  to  try." 

"Well,  I'll  do  what  I  can,"  said  Miss  Ophelia;  and  she 
approached  her  new  subject  very  much  as  a  person  might 
be  supposed  to  approach  a  black  spider,  supposing  him  to 
have  benevolent  designs  toward  it. 

"She's  dreadfully  dirty,  and  half  naked,"  she  said. 

"Well,  take  her  down  stairs,  and  make  some  of  them 
clean  and  clothe  her  up." 

When  arrayed  at  last  in  a  suit  of  decent  and  whole  cloth- 
ing, her  hair  cropped  short  to  her  head.  Miss  Ophelia,  with 
some  satisfaction  said  she  looked  more  Christianlike  than 
she  did,  and  in  her  own  mind  began  to  mature  some  plans 
for  her  instruction. 


196  American  Literature 

Sitting  down  before  her,  she  began  to  question  her. 

"How  old  are  you,  Topsy?" 

"Dunno,  Missis,"  said  the  image,  with  a  grin  that  showed 
all  her  teeth. 

"Don't  know  how  old  you  are?  Didn't  anybody  ever 
tell  you?    Who  was  your  mother?" 

"Never  had  none !"  said  the  child,  with  another  grin. 

"  Never  had  any  mother  ?  What  do  you  mean  ?  Where 
were  you  born?" 

"Never  was  bom!"  persisted  Topsy,  with  another  grin, 
that  looked  so  goblin-Uke,  that  if  Miss  Ophelia  had  been 
at  all  nervous  she  might  have  fancied  that  she  had  got 
hold  of  some  sooty  gnome  from  the  land  of  Diablerie; 
but  Miss  OpheUa  was  not  nervous,  but  plain  and  business- 
like, and  she  said,  with  some  sternness, — 

"You  mustn't  answer  me  in  that  way,  child;  I'm  not 
playing  with  you.  Tell  me  where  you  were  born,  and 
who  your  father  and  mother  were." 

"Never  was  born,"  reiterated  the  creature,  more  em- 
phatically; "never  had  no  father  nor  mother,  nor  nothin'. 
I  was  raised  by  a  speculator,  with  lots  of  others.  Old 
Aunt  Sue  used  to  take  car  on  us." 

"How  long  have  you  Kved  with  your  master  and  mis^ 
tress?  " 

"Dunno,  Missis." 

"Is  it  a  year,  or  more,  or  less?" 

"Dunno,  Missis." 

•  ••••••• 

"Have  you  ever  heard  anything  about  God,  Topsy?" 

The  child  looked  bewildered,  but  grinned  as  usual. 

"Do  you  know  who  made  you?" 

"Nobody,  as  I  knows  on,"  said  the  child,  with  a  short 
laugh. 

The  idea  appeared  to  amuse  her  considerably;  for  her 
eyes  twinkled,  and  she  added, — 

"  I  spect  I  grow'd.     Don't  think  nobody  never  made  me." 

"Do  you  know  how  to  sew?"  said  Miss  OpheUa,  who 


Writers  of  the  Mid- Century  and  After    197 

thought  she  would  turn  her  inquiries  to  something  more 
tangible. 

"No,  Missis." 

"What  can  you  do? — what  did  you  do  for  your  master 
and  mistress?" 

"Fetch  water,  and  wash  dishes,  and  rub  knives,  and  wait 
on  folks." 

"Were  they  good  to  you?" 

"Spect  they  was,"  said  the  child,  scanning  Miss  Opheha 
cunningly. 

Miss  Opheha  rose  from  this  encouraging  colloquy;  St. 
Clare  was  leaning  over  the  back  of  her  chair. 

"You  find  virgin  soil  there,  cousin;  put  in  your  own 
ideas, — you  won't  find  many  to  pull  up." 

2.  Helen  Fiske  Jackson,  "  Helen  Hunt  "  (i  831-1885),  was 
born  in  Amherst,  Massachusetts.  It  was  through  her  poems 
that  she  first  gained  a  place  in  the  world  of  literature.  Her 
great  novel  Ramona  grew  out  of  her  experiences  as  special 
examiner  to  the  mission  Indians  of  California  and,  in  a  measure, 
did  for  the  Indian  what  Uncle  Tom's  Cabin  did  for  the  negro. 
It  is  hoped  that  the  following  excerpt  will  stimulate  a  desire  to 
read  the  whole  story. 

Dawn  at  the  Moreno  Ranch 

(From  Ramona,  a  Story,  Chapter  V) 

The  room  in  which  Father  Salvierderra  always  slept 
when  at  the  Senora  Moreno's  house  was  the  southeast 
corner  room.  It  had  a  window  to  the  south  and  one  to 
the  east.  When  the  first  glow  of  dawn  came  in  the  sky, 
this  eastern  window  was  lit  up  as  by  a  fire.  The  Father 
was  always  on  watch  for  it,  having  usually  been  at  prayer 
for  hours.  As  the  first  ray  reached  the  window,  he  would 
throw  the  casement  wide  open,  and  standing  there  with 
bared  head,  strike  up  the  melody  of  the  sunrise  hymn  sung 
in  all  devout  Mexican  families.  It  was  a  beautiful  custom, 
not  yet  wholly  abandoned.  At  the  first  dawn  of  Hght,  the 
oldest  member  of  the  family  arose,  and  began  singing  some 


198  American  Literature 

hymn  familiar  to  the  household.  It  was  the  duty  of  each 
person  hearing  it  to  immediately  rise,  or  at  least  sit  up  in 
bed,  and  join  in  the  singing.  In  a  few  moments  the  whole 
family  would  be  singing,  and  the  joyous  sounds  pouring 
out  from  the  house  like  the  music  of  the  birds  in  the  fields 
at  dawn.  Th.e  hymns  were  usually  invocations  to  the 
Virgin,  or  to  the  saint  of  the  day,  and  the  melodies  were 
sweet  and  simple. 

On  this  morning  there  was  another  watcher  for  the  dawn 
besides  Father  Salvierderra.  It  was  Alessandro,  who  had 
been  restlessly  wandering  about  since  midnight,  and  had 
finally  seated  himself  under  the  willow  trees  by  the  brook, 
at  the  spot  where  he  had  seen  Ramona  the  evening  before. 
He  recollected  this  custom  of  the  sunrise  hymn  when  he 
and  his  band  were  at  the  Senora's  the  last  year,  and  he  had 
chanced  then  to  learn  that  the  Father  slept  in  the  south- 
east room.  From  the  spot  where  he  sat,  he  could  see  the 
south  window  of  this  room.  He  could  also  see  the  low 
eastern  horizon,  at  which  a  faint  luminous  Une  already 
showed.  The  sky  was  hke  amber;  a  few  stars  still  shone 
faintly  in  the  zenith.  There  was  not  a  sound.  It  was 
one  of  those  rare  moments  in  which  one  can  without  dif- 
ficulty realize  the  noiseless  spinning  of  the  earth  through 
space.  Alessandro  knew  nothing  of  this;  he  could  not 
have  been  made  to  believe  that  the  earth  was  moving. 
He  thought  the  sun  was  coming  up  apace,  and  the  earth 
was  standing  still, — a  belief  just  as  grand,  just  as  thrilling, 
so  far  as  all  that  goes,  as  the  other:  men  worshipped  the 
s\m  long  before  they  found  out  that  it  stood  still. 


His  eyes  wandered  from  the  horizon  line  of  slowly  in- 
creasing light,  to  the  windows  of  the  house,  yet  dark  and 
still.  ''Which  window  is  hers?  Will  she  open  it  when 
the  song  begins?"  he  thought.  '*Is  it  on  this  side  of  the 
house?  Who  can  she  be?  She  was  not  here  last  year. 
Saw  the  saints  ever  so  beautiful  a  creature !" 

At  last  came  the  full  red  ray  across  the  meadow.  Ales- 
sandro sprang  to  his  feet.     In  the  next  second  Father 


Writers  of  the  Mid- Century  and  After     199 

Salvierderra  flung  up  his  south  window,  and  leaning  out,  his 
cowl  thrown  off,  his  thin  gray  locks  streaming  back,  began 
in  a  feeble  but  not  unmelodious  voice  to  sing — 

"  O  beautiful  Queen, 
Princess  of  Heaven." 

Before  he  had  finished  the  second  line,  a  half-dozen  voices 
had  joined  in — the  Senora,  from  her  room  at  the  west  end 
of  the  veranda,  beyond  the  flowers;  Felipe,  from  the  ad- 
joining room;  Ramona,  from  hers,  the  next;  and  Marga- 
rita and  other  of  the  maids  already  astir  in  the  wings  of 
the  house. 


"  Singers  at  dawn 
From  the  heavens  above 
People  all  regions; 
Gladly  we  too  sing," 

continued  the  hymn,  the  birds  corroborating  the  stanza. 
Then  men's  voices  joined  in.  The  hymn  was  a  favorite 
one,  known  to  all. 

"  Come,  O  sinners. 
Come,  and  we  will  sing 
Tender  hymns 
To  our  refuge," 

was  the  chorus,  repeated  after  each  of  the  five  verses  of 
the  hymn. 

Alessandro  also  knew  the  hymn  well.  His  father.  Chief 
Pablo,  had  been  the  leader  of  the  choir  at  the  San  Luis 
Rey  Mission  in  the  last  years  of  its  splendor,  and  had 
brought  away  with  him  much  of  the  old  choir  music.  Some 
of  the  books  had  been  written  by  his  own  hand,  on  parch- 
ment. He  not  only  sang  well,  but  was  a  good  player  on 
the  violin.  There  was  not  at  any  of  the  missions  so  fine  a 
band  of  performers  on  stringed  instruments  as  at  San 
Luis  Rey. 

Alessandro  had  inherited  his  father's  love  and  talent  for 


200  American  Literature 

music,  and  knew  all  the  old  mission  music  by  heart.  This 
hymn  to  the 

"  Beautiful  Queen, 
Princess  of  Heaven," 

was  one  of  his  special  favorites;  and  as  he  heard  verse  after 
verse  rising,  he  could  not  forbear  striking  in. 

At  the  first  notes  of  this  rich  new  voice,  Ramona's  voice 
ceased  in  surprise;  and,  throwing  up  her  window,  she 
leaned  out,  eagerly  looking  in  all  directions  to  see  who  it 
could  be.     Alessandro  saw  her,  and  sang  no  more. 

''What  could  it  have  been?  Did  I  dream  it?"  thought 
Ramona,  drew  in  her  head,  and  began  to  sing  again. 

With  the  next  stanza  of  the  chorus,  the  same  rich  bari- 
tone notes.  They  seemed  to  float  in  under  all  the  rest, 
and  bear  them  along,  as  a  great  wave  bears  a  boat.  Ra- 
mona had  never  heard  such  a  voice.  FeUpe  had  a  good 
tenor,  and  she  liked  to  sing  with  him,  or  to  hear  him; 
but  this — this  was  from  another  world,  this  sound.  Ra- 
mona felt  every  note  of  it  penetrating  her  consciousness 
with  a  subtle  thrill  almost  like  pain.  When  the  hymn 
ended,  she  listened  eagerly,  hoping  Father  Salvierderra 
would  strike  up  a  second  hymn,  as  he  often  did;  but  he 
did  not  this  morning;  there  was  too  much  to  be  done; 
everybody  was  in  a  hurry  to  be  at  work:  windows  shut, 
doors  opened;  the  sounds  of  voices  from  all  directions, 
ordering,  questioning,  answering,  began  to  be  heard.  The 
sun  rose  and  let  a  flood  of  work-a-day  light  on  the  whole 
place. 

3.  Louisa  M.  Alcott  (1832-1888)  was  the  daughter  of  Amos 
Bronson  Alcott,  who  was  associated  with  Emerson,  Thoreau, 
and  other  Transcendentalists.  She  became  a  popular  writer 
for  young  folks.  Her  Little  Men  and  Little  Women  are  dear  to 
the  hearts  of  most  boys  and  girls.  The  latter  was  dramatized 
in  191 2  and  met  with  great  success  on  the  New  York  stage. 

Charles  F.  Browne,  ''Artemus  Ward"  (1834-1867), 
Henry  W.  Shaw,  ''Josh  Billings"  (1818-1885),  and  Edgar 


Writers  of  the  Mid-  Century  and  After    201 

Wilson  Nye,  '^Bill  Nye"  (1850-1896),  were  popular  en- 
tertainers in  their  day  and  contributed  to  the  written  record 
of  American  humor.     Characteristic  extracts  follow. 

4.     Charles  F.  Browne  (Artemus  Ward). 
Woman's  Rights 

I  pitcht  my  tent  in  a  small  town  in  Injianny  one  day 
last  season,  &  while  I  was  standin  at  the  dore  takin  money, 
a  deppytashum  of  ladies  came  up  &  sed  they  wos  members, 
of  the  Bunkumville  Female  Reformin  &  Wimin's  Rite's 
Associashun,  and  they  axed  me  if  they  cood  go  in  without 
payin. 

''Not  exactly,"  sez  I,  ''but  you  can  pay  without  goin  in."" 

"Dew  you  know  who  we  air?"  said  one  of  the  wimin — 
a  tall  and  feroshus  lookin  critter,  with  a  blew  kotton  um- 
breller  under  her  arm — "do  you  know  who  we  air,  Sur?" 

"My  impreshun  is,"  sed  I,  "from  a  kersery  view,  that 
you  air  females." 

"We  air,  Sur,"  said  the  feroshus  woman — "we  belong 
to  a  Sosiety  whitch  beleeves  wimin  has  rites — whitch 
beleeves  in  razin  her  to  her  proper  speer — whitch  beleeves 
she  is  indowed  with  as  much  intelleck  as  man  is — whitch 
beleeves  she  is  trampled  on  and  aboozed — &  who  will 
resist  henso4th  &  forever  the  incroachments  of  proud  & 
domineering  men." 

Durin  her  discourse,  the  exsentric  female  grabbed  me 
by  the  coat-kollor  &  was  swinging  her  umbreller  wildly 
over  my  hed. 

"I  hope,  marm,"  sez  I,  starting  back,  "that  your  in- 
tensions is  honorable !  I'm  a  lone  man  here  in  a  strange 
place.     Besides,  I've  a  wife  to  hum." 

"Yess,"  cried  the  female,  "&  she's  a  slave!  Doth  she 
never  dream  of  freedom — doth  she  never  think  of  throwin 
off  the  yoke  of  tyrrinny  &  thinkin  &  votin  for  herself  ?—^ 
Doth  she  never  think  of  these  here  things?" 

"Not  bein  a  natral  born  fool,"  sed  I,  by  this  time  a 
little  riled,  "I  kin  safely  say  that  she  dothunt." 


202  American  Literature 

"Oh  whot — whot!"  screamed  the  female,  swinging  her 
umbreller  in  the  air.  ''Oh,  what  is  the  price  that  woman 
pays  for  her  experiunce." 

"I  don't  know,"  sez  I;  ''the  price  of  my  show  is  15  cents 
pur  individooal." 

*'&  can't  our  Sosiety  go  in  free?"  asked  the  female. 

"Not  if  I  know  it,"  sed  I. 

"Crooil,  crooil  man !"  she  cried,  &  bust  into  teers. 


"My  female  friends,"  sed  I,  "before  you  leeve,  I've  a 
few  remarks !  wa  them  well.  The  female  woman  is  one 
of  the  greatest  institooshuns  of  which  this  land  can  boste. 
Its  onpossible  to  get  along  without  her.  Had  ther  bin  no 
female  wimin  in  the  world,  I  should  scarcely  be  here  with 
my  unpareleld  show  on  this  occashun.  She  is  good  in 
sickness — good  in  wellness — good  at  the  time.  O  woman, 
woman!"  I  cried,  my  feelins  worked  up  to  a  hi  poetick 
pitch.  "You  air  a  angle  when  you  behave  yourself;  but 
when  you  take  off  you  proper  appairel  &  (mettyforically 
speaken) — get  into  pan ty loons — when  you  desert  your 
firesides,  &  with  your  heds  full  of  wimin's  rites  noshuns 
go  round  like  roarin  lions,  seekin  whom  you  may  devour 
someboddy — in  short,  when  you  undertake  to  play  the 
man,  you  play  the  devil  and  air  an  emfatic  noosance.  My 
female  friends,"  I  continnered,  as  they  were  indignantly 
departin,  "wa  well  what  A.  Ward  has  sed !" 

5.     Henry  W.  Shaw  (Josh  Billings). 

The  Bumblebee 

The  bumblebee  iz  a  kind  ov  big  fly  who  goes  muttering 
and  swareing  around  the  lots,  during  the  summer,  looking 
after  little  boys  to  sting  them,  and  steaUng  hunny  out  ov 
the  dandyhons  and  thissells.  He  iz  mad  all  the  time  about 
sumthing,  and  don't  seem  to  kare  a  kuss  what  people 
think  ov  him.  A  skoolboy  will  studdy  harder  enny  time 
to  find  a  bumblebee's  nest  than  he  will  to  get  hiz  lesson  in 
arithmetik,  and  when  he  haz  found  it,  and  got  the  hunny 


Writers  of  the  Mid-  Century  and  After     203 

out  ov  it,  and  got  badly  stung  into  the  bargin,  he  finds 
thare  ain't  mutch  margin  in  it.  Next  to  poor  molassis, 
bumblebee  hunny  iz  the  poorest  kind  ov  sweetmeats  in 
market.  Bumblebees  hav  allwuss  been  in  fashion,  and 
probably  allwuss  will  be,  but  whare  the  fun  or  profit  lays 
in  them  i  never  could  cyper  out.  The  proffit  don't  seem 
to  be  in  the  hunny,  nor  in  the  bumblebee  neither.  They 
bild  their  nest  in  the  ground,  or  enny  whare  else  they  take 
a  noshun  to.  It  ain't  afrade  to  fite  a  whole  distrikt  skool 
if  they  meddle  with  them.  I  don't  blame  the  bumblebee 
nor  enny  other  fellow,  for  defending  hiz  sugar;  it  iz  the  fust 
and  last  Law  ov  natur,  and  i  hope  the  law  won't  never  run 
out.  The  smartest  thing  about  the  bumblebee  iz  their 
stinger. 

6.     Edgar  Wilson  Nye  (Bill  Nye). 

The  Garden  Hose 

It  is  now  the  proper  time  for  the  cross-eyed  woman  to 
fool  with  the  garden  hose.  I  have  faced  death  in  almost 
every  form,  and  I  do  not  know  what  fear  is,  but  when  a 
woman  with  one  eye  gazing  into  the  Zodiac  and  the  other 
peering  into  the  middle  of  next  week,  and  wearing  one  of 
those  floppy  sunbonnets,  picks  up  the  nozle  of  the  garden 
hose  and  turns  on  the  full  force  of  the  institution,  I  fly 
wildly  to  the  Mountains  of  Hepsidam. 

Water  won't  hurt  any  one,  of  course,  if  care  is  used  not 
to  forget  and  drink  any  of  it,  but  it  is  this  horrible  suspense 
and  uncertainty  about  facing  the  nozle  of  a  garden  hose  in 
the  hands  of  a  cross-eyed  woman  that  unnerves  and  par- 
alyzes me. 

Instantaneous  death  is  nothing  to  me.  I  am  as  cool  and 
collected  where  leaden  rain  and  iron  hail  are  thickest,  as 
I  would  be  in  my  own  office  writing  the  obituary  of  the  man 
who  steals  my  jokes.  But  I  hate  to  be  drowned  slowly 
in  my  good  clothes  and  on  dry  land,  and  have  my  dying 
gaze  rest  on  a  woman  whose  ravishing  beauty  would  drive 
a  narrow-gage  mule  into  convulsions  and  make  him  hate 
himself  t'  death. 


204  American  Literature 

7.  Donald  Grant  Mitchell,  "Ik  Marvel  "  (1822-1908),  was 
a  graduate  of  Yale.  His  best-known  work  is  Reveries  of  a 
Bachelor  (1850),  which  was  immensely  popular  a  generation  or 
two  ago.  His  writings  have  a  freshness  and  charm  which  are 
rarely  found. 

The  Sea 

(From  Reveries  of  a  Bachelor — "  Fourth  Reverie  ") 

The  sea  is  around  me.  The  last  headlands  have  gone 
down  under  the  horizon,  like  the  city  steeples,  as  you  lose 
yourself  in  the  calm  of  the  country,  or  like  the  great  thoughts 
of  genius,  as  you  slip  from  the  pages  of  poets  into  your 
own  quiet  Reverie. 

The  waters  Skirt  me  right  and  left;  there  is  nothing 
but  water  before,  and  only  water  behind.  Above  me  are 
sailing  clouds,  or  the  blue  vault,  which  we  call,  with  child- 
ish license,  heaven.  The  sails  white  and  full,  like  helping 
friends,  are  pushing  me  on;  and  night  and  day  are  dis- 
tent with  the  winds  which  come  and  go  —  none  know 
.whence,  and  none  know  whither.  A  land-bird  flutters 
aloft,  weary  with  long  flying,  and  lost  in  a  world  where 
are  no  forests  but  the  careening  masts,  and  no  foliage  but 
the  drifts  of  spray.  It  cleaves  a  while  to  the  smooth  spars, 
till  urged  by  some  homeward  yearning,  it  bears  off  in  the 
face  of  the  wind,  and  sinks  and  rises  over  the  angry  waters, 
until  its  strength  is  gone,  and  the  blue  waves  gather  the 
poor  flutterer  to  their  cold  and  glassy  bosom. 

All  the  morning  I  see  nothing  beyond  me  but  the  waters, 
or  a  tossing  company  of  dolphins;  all  the  noon,  unless 
some  white  sail,  like  a  ghost,  stalks  the  horizon,  there  is 
still  nothing  but  the  rolling  seas;  all  the  evening,  after 
the  sun  has  grown  big  and  sunk  under  the  water-line,  and 
the  moon  risen  white  and  cold  to  glimmer  across  the  tops 
of  the  surging  ocean,  there  is  nothing  but  the  sea  and  the 
sky  to  lead  off  thought,  or  to  crush  it  with  their  greatness. 

Hour  after  hour  as  I  sit  in  the  moonlight  upon  the  taff- 
rail,  the  great  waves  gather  far  back  and  break, — and  gather 
nearer,  and  break  louder, — and  gather  again,  and  roll  down 
swift  and  terrible  under  the  creaking  ship,  and  heave  it  up 


Writers  of  the  Mid-  Century  and  After     205 

lightly  upon  their  swelling  surge,  and  drop  it  gently  to 
their  seething  and  yeasty  cradle,  like  an  infant  in  the 
swaying  arms  of  a  mother,  or  like  a  shadowy  memory  upon 
the  billows  of  manly  thought. 

Conscience  wakes  in  the  silent  nights  of  ocean;  life  lies 
open  like  a  book,  and  spreads  out  as  level  as  the  sea.  Re- 
grets and  broken  resolutions  chase  over  the  soul  Hke  swift 
winged  night-birds;  and  all  the  unsteady  heights  and  the 
wastes  of  action  lift  up  distinct  and  clear  from  the  uneasy 
but  limpid  depths  of  memory.  .  .  . 

But  ocean  has  its  storms,  when  fear  will  make  strange 
and  holy  companionship;  and  even  here  my  memory 
shifts  swiftly  and  suddenly. 

It  is  a  dreadful  night.  The  passengers  are  clus- 
tered, trembling,  below.  Every  plank  shakes;  and  the 
oak  ribs  groan  as  if  they  suffered  with  their  toil.  The 
hands  are  all  aloft;  the  captain  is  forward  shouting  to  the 
mate  in  the  cross-trees,  and  I  am  clinging  to  one  of  the 
stanchions  by  the  binnacle.  The  ship  is  pitching  madly,, 
and  the  waves  are  toppling  up  sometimes  as  high  as  the 
yard-arm,  and  then  dipping  away  with  a  whirl  under  our 
keel,  that  makes  every  timber  in  the  vessel  quiver.  The 
thunder  is  roaring  like  a  thousand  cannons;  and  at  the 
moment  the  sky  is  cleft  with  a  stream  of  fire  that  glares 
over  the  tops  of  the  waves,  and  glistens  on  the  wet  decks 
and  the  spars, — Ughting  up  all  so  plain,  that  I  can  see  the 
men's  faces  in  the  main-top,  and  catch  glimpses  of  the 
reefers  on  the  yard-arm,  clinging  like  death; — then  all  is 
horrible  darkness. 

The  spray  spits  angrily  against  the  canvas;  the  waves 
crash  against  the  weather-bow  like  mountains;  the  wind 
howls  through  the  rigging,  or,  as  a  gasket  gives  way,  the 
sail,  bellying  to  leeward,  splits  like  a  crack  of  a  musket. 
I  hear  the  captain  in  the  lulls  screaming  out  orders;  and 
the  mate  in  the  rigging  screaming  them  over,  until  the 
lightning  comes,  and  the  thunder,  deadening  their  voices 
as  if  they  were  chirping  sparrows. 

In  one  of  the  flashes  I  see  a  hand  upon  the  yard-arm 
lose  his  foothold  as  the  ship  gives  a  plunge;  but  his  arms 


206  American  Literature 

are  clenched  around  the  spar.  Before  I  can  see  any  more, 
the  blackness  comes,  and  the  thunder,  with  a  crash  that 
half  deafens  me.  I  think  I  hear  a  low  cry,  as  the  mutter- 
ings  die  away  in  the  distance;  and  at  the  next  flash  of 
lightning,  which  comes  in  an  instant,  I  see  upon  the  top 
of  one  of  the  waves  along-side  the  poor  reefer  who  has 
fallen.     The  Ughtning  glares  upon  his  face. 

But  he  has  caught  at  a  loose  bit  of  running  rigging  as 
he  fell;  and  I  see  it  slipping  off  the  coil  upon  the  deck.  I 
shout  madly,  ''Man  overboard  !"  and  catch  the  rope,  when 
I  can  see  nothing  again.  The  sea  is  too  high,  and  the  man 
too  heavy  for  me.  I  shout,  and  shout,  and  shout,  and  feel 
the  perspiration  starting  in  great  beads  from  my  forehead 
as  the  line  slips  through  my  fingers. 

Presently  the  captain  feels  his  way  aft  and  takes  hold 
with  me;  and  the  cook  comes  as  the  coil  is  nearly  spent, 
and  we  pull  together  upon  him.  It  is  desperate  work  for 
the  sailor;  for  the  ship  is  drifting  at  a  prodigious  rate;  but 
he  chngs  Hke  a  dying  man. 

By-and-by  at  a  flash  we  see  him  on  a  crest  two  oars* 
length  away  from  the  vessel. 

"Hold  on,  my  man !"  shouts  the  captain. 

''For  God's  sake,  be  quick!"  says  the  poor  fellow,  and 
he  goes  down  in  the  trough  of  the  sea.  We  pull  the  harder, 
and  the  captain  keeps  calling  to  him  to  keep  up  courage  and 
hold  strong.  But  in  the  hush  we  can  hear  him  say, — "I 
can't  hold  out  much  longer;  I'm  'most  gone  !" 

Presently  we  have  brought  the  man  where  we  can  lay 
hold  of  him,  and  are  only  waiting  for  a  good  Uft  of  the  sea 
to  bring  him  up,  when  the  poor  fellow  groans  out, — "It's 
no  use — I  can't — good-by!"  And  a  wave  tosses  the  end 
of  the  rope  clean  upon  the  bulwarks. 

At  the  next  flash  I  see  him  going  down  under  the  water. 

I  grope  my  way  below,  sick  and  faint  at  heart;  and 
wedging  myself  into  my  narrow  berth,  I  try  to  sleep.  But 
the  thunder  and  the  tossing  of  the  ship,  and  the  face  of 
the  drowning  man  as  he  said  good-by,  peering  at  me  from 
every  corner,  will  not  let  me  sleep. 

Afterward  come  quiet  seas,  over  which  we  boom  along, 


Writers  of  the  Mid-  Century  and  After     207 

leaving  in  our  track  at  night  a  broad  path  of  phosphores- 
cent splendor.  The  sailors  bustle  around  the  decks  as  if 
they  had  lost  no  comrade;  and  the  voyagers,  losing  the 
pallor  of  fear,  look  out  earnestly  for  the  land. 

At  length  my  eyes  rest  upon  the  coveted  fields  of  Britain; 
and  in  a  day  more  the  bright  face,  looking  out  beside  me, 
sparkles  at  sight  of  the  sweet  cottages  which  He  along  the 
green  Essex  shores.  Broad-sailed  yachts,  looking  strangely 
yet  beautiful,  ghde  upon  the  waters  of  the  Thames  like 
swans;  black,  square-rigged  colliers  from  the  Tyne  lie 
grouped  in  sooty  cohorts;  and  heavy,  three-decked  India- 
men — of  which  I  had  read  in  story-books — drift  slowly 
down  with  the  tide.  Dingy  steamers,  with  white  pipes 
and  with  red  pipes,  whiz  past  us  to  the  sea;  and  now  my 
eye  rests  on  the  great  palace  of  Greenwich;  I  see  the 
wooden-legged  pensioners  smoking  under  the  palace-walls, 
and  above  them  upon  the  hill — as  Heaven  is  true — that 
old  fabulous  Greenwich,  the  great  center  of  schoolboy 
Longitude. 

Presently,  from  under  a  cloud  of  murky  smoke,  heaves 
up  the  vast  dome  of  St.  Paul's  and  the  tall  Column  of 
the  Fire,  and  the  white  turrets  of  London  Tower.  Our 
ship  ghdes  through  the  massive  dock-gates,  and  is  moored 
amid  the  forest  of  masts  which  bears  golden  fruit  for 
Britons. 

8.  Edward  Everett  Hale  (182  2-1909)  was  born  in  Boston 
and  educated  at  Harvard.  He  was  a  distinguished  Unitarian 
minister  who  won  deserved  fame  in  the  literary  world  through 
his  story  The  Man  Without  a  Country ,  published  in  1863.  This 
is  now  recognized  as  one  of  our  classics.  One  of  his  most  amus- 
ing short  stories  is  given  below. 

My  Double  and  How  He  Undid  Me 
(slightly  abridged) 

...  I  am,  or  rather  was,  a  minister,  of  the  Sandemanian 
connection.  I  was  settled  in  the  active,  wide-awake  town 
of  Naguadavick,  on  one  of  the  finest  water-powers  in  Maine. 


208  Afnerican  Literature 

We  used  to  call  it  a  Western  town  in  the  heart  of  the  civ- 
ilization of  New  England.  A  charming  place  it  was  and  is. 
A  spirited,  brave  young  parish  had  I,  and  it  seemed  as  if 
we  might  have  all  *'the  joy  of  eventful  living"  to  our 
heart's  content.  .  .  . 

I  had  not  been  at  work  a  year  before  I  found  I  was  living 
two  Hves,  one  real  and  one  merely  functional — for  two 
sets  of  people,  one  my  parish,  whom  I  loved,  and  the  other 
a  vague  pubHc,  for  whom  I  did  not  care  two  straws.  All 
this  was  a  vague  notion,  which  everybody  had  and  has, 
that  this  second  hfe  would  eventually  bring  out  some  great 
results,  unknown  at  present,  to  somebody  somewhere. 

Crazed  by  this  duaUty  of  life,  I  first  read  Doctor  Wigan 
on  the  ''Duality  of  the  Brain,"  hoping  that  I  could  train 
one  side  of  my  head  to  do  these  outside  jobs,  and  the  other 
to  do  my  intimate  and  real  duties.  .  .  .  But  Doctor 
Wigan  does  not  go  into  these  niceties  of  this  subject,  and 
I  failed.  It  was  then  that,  on  my  wife's  suggestion,  I 
resolved  to  look  out  for  a  Double. 

I  was  at  first  singularly  successful.  We  happened  to  be 
recreating  at  Stafford  Springs  that  summer.  We  rode 
out  one  day,  for  one  of  the  relaxations  of  that  watering 
place,  to  the  great  Monson  Poorhouse.  We  were  passing 
through  one  of  the  large  halls,  when  my  destiny  was  ful- 
filled! 

He  was  not  shaven.  He  had  on  no  spectacles.  He 
was  dressed  in  a  green  baize  roundabout  and  faded  blue 
overalls,  worn  sadly  at  the  knee.  But  I  saw  at  once  that 
he  was  of  my  height — five  feet  four  and  a  half.  He  had 
black  hair,  worn  off  by  his  hat.  So  have  and  have  not  I. 
He  stooped  in  walking.  So  do  I.  His  hands  were  large, 
and  mine.  And — choicest  gift  of  Fate  in  all — he  had,  not 
**a  strawberry-mark  on  his  left  arm,"  but  a  cut  from  a 
juvenile  brickbat  over  his  right  eye,  slightly  affecting  the 
play  of  that  eyebrow.  Reader,  so  have  I !  My  fate  was 
sealed ! 

A  word  with  Mr.  Holly,  one  of  the  inspectors,  settled 
the  whole  thing.  It  proved  that  this  Dennis  Shea  was  a 
harmless,  amiable  fellow,  of  the  class  known  as  shiftless, 


Writers  of  the  Mid-  Century  and  After     209 

who  had  sealed  his  fate  by  marrying  a  dumb  wife,  who  was 
at  that  moment  ironing  in  the  laundry.  Before  I  left 
Stafford  I  had  hired  both  for  five  years.  We  had  applied 
to  Judge  Pynchon,  then  the  probate  Judge  at  Springfield, 
to  change  the  name  of  Dennis  Shea  to  Frederic  Ingham. 
We  had  explained  to  the  Judge,  what  was  the  precise  truth, 
that  an  eccentric  gentleman  wished  to  adopt  Dennis, 
under  this  new  name,  into  his  family.  It  never  occurred 
to  him  that  Dennis  might  be  more  than  fourteen  years  old. 
And  thus,  to  shorten  this  preface,  when  we  returned  at 
night  to  my  parsonage  at  Naguadavick,  there  entered 
Mrs.  Ingham,  her  new  dumb  laundress,  myself,  who  am 
Mr.  Frederic  Ingham,  and  my  double,  who  was  Mr.  Fred- 
eric Ingham,  by  as  good  right  as  I. 

Oh,  the  fun  we  had  the  next  morning  in  shaving  his 
beard  to  my  pattern,  cutting  his  hair  to  match  mine,  and 
teaching  him  how  to  wear  and  how  to  take  off  gold-bowed 
spectacles !  Really,  they  were  electroplate,  and  the  glass 
was  plain  (for  the  poor  fellow's  eyes  were  excellent).  Then 
in  four  successive  afternoons  I  taught  him  four  speeches. 
I  had  found  these  would  be  quite  enough  for  the  super- 
numerary-Sepoy line  of  life,  and  it  was  well  for  me  they 
were;  for  though  he  was  good-natured,  he  was  very  shiftless, 
and  it  was,  as  our  national  proverb  says,  ''like  pulling 
teeth"  to  teach  him.  But  at  the  end  of  the  next  week  he 
could  say,  with  quite  my  easy  and  frisky  air: 

1.  ''Very  well,  thank  you.  And  you?"  This  for  an 
answer  to  casual  salutations. 

2.  "I  am  very  glad  you  liked  it." 

3.  "There  has  been  so  much  said,  and,  on  the  whole, 
so  well  said,  that  I  will  not  occupy  the  time." 

4.  "I  agree,  in  general,  with  my  friend  the  other  side  of 
the  room." 

At  first  I  had  a  feeling  that  I  was  going  to  be  at  great 
cost  for  clothing  him.  But  it  proved,  of  course,  at  once, 
that,  whenever  he  was  out,  I  should  be  at  home.  And  I 
went,  during  the  bright  period  of  his  success,  to  so  few  of 
those  awful  pageants  which  require  a  black  dress  coat  and 
what  the  ungodly  call,  after  Mr.  Dickens,  a  white  choker. 


210  American  Literature 

that  in  the  happy  retreat  of  my  own  dressing-gowns  and 
jackets  my  days  w^ent  by  as  happily  and  cheaply  as  those 
of  another  Thalaba.  And  Polly  declares  there  never  was  a 
year  when  the  tailoring  cost  so  little.  He  hved  (Dennis 
not  Thalaba)  in  his  wife's  room  over  the  kitchen.  He  had 
orders  never  to  show  himself  at  that  window.  When  he 
appeared  in  the  front  of  the  house,  I  retired  to  my  sanctis- 
simum  and  my  dressing-gown.  In  short,  the  Dutchman 
and  his  wife,  in  the  old  weather-box,  had  not  less  to  do  with 
each  other  than  he  and  I.  He  made  the  furnace  fire  and 
spHt  the  wood  before  daylight;  then  he  went  to  sleep 
again,  and  slept  late;  then  came  for  orders,  with  a  red  silk 
bandanna  tied  round  his  head,  with  his  overalls  on,  and  his 
dress  coat  and  spectacles  off.  If  we  happened  to  be  inter- 
rupted, no  one  guessed  that  he  was  Frederic  Ingham  as 
well  as  I;  and  in  the  neighborhood  there  grew  up  an  impres- 
sion that  the  minister's  Irishman  worked  daytimes  in  the 
factory  village  at  New  Coventry.  After  I  had  given  him 
his  orders,  I  never  saw  him  till  the  next  day. 

I  launched  him  by  sending  him  to  a  meeting  of  the 
Enlightenment  Board.  The  EnHghtenment  Board  con- 
sists of  seventy-four  members,  of  whom  sixty-seven  are 
necessary  to  form  a  quorum.  ...  At  this  particular  time 
we  had  had  four  successive  meetings,  averaging  four  hours 
each — wholly  occupied  in  whipping  in  a  quorum.  At 
the  first  only  eleven  men  were  present;  at  the  next,  by 
force  of  three  circulars,  twenty-seven;  at  the  third,  thanks 
to  two  days'  canvassing  by  Auchmuty  and  myself,  begging 
men  to  come,  we  had  sixty.  Half  the  others  were  in  Eu- 
rope. But  without  a  quorum  we  could  do  nothing.  All 
the  rest  of  us  waited  grimly  for  four  hours  and  adjourned 
without  any  action.  At  the  fourth  meeting  we  had  flagged, 
and  only  got  fifty-nine  together. 

But  on  the  first  appearance  of  my  double — whom  I  sent 
on  this  fatal  Monday  to  the  fifth  meeting — he  was  the 
sixty-seventh  man  who  entered  the  room.  He  was  greeted 
with  a  storm  of  applause !  The  poor  fellow  had  missed  his 
way — read  the  street  signs  ill  through  his  spectacles  (very 
ill,  in  fact,  without  them)  and  had  not  dared  to  inquire. 


Writers  of  the  Mid- Century  and  After    211 

He  entered  the  room^finding  the  president  and  secretary 
holding  to  their  chairs  two  judges  of  the  Supreme  Court, 
who  were  also  members  ex-officio,  and  were  begging  leave 
to  go  away.  On  his  entrance  all  was  changed.  Presto, 
the  by-laws  were  suspended,  and  the  Western  property 
was  given  away.  Nobody  stopped  to  converse  with  him. 
He  voted,  as  I  had  charged  him  to  do,  in  every  instance 
with  the  minority.  I  won  new  laurels  as  a  man  of  sense, 
though  a  little  unpunctual — and  Dennis,  alias  Ingham, 
returned  to  the  parsonage,  astonished  to  see  with  how 
little  wisdom  the  world  is  governed.  He  cut  a  few  of  my 
parishioners  in  the  street;  but  he  had  his  glasses  off,  and 
I  am  known  to  be  near-sighted.  Eventually  he  recognized 
them  more  readily  than  I.  .  .  . 

After  this  he  went  to  several  Commencements  for  me, 
and  ate  the  dinners  provided;  he  sat  through  three  of  our 
Quarterly  Conventions  for  me — always  voting  judiciously, 
by  the  simple  rule  mentioned  above,  of  siding  with  the 
minority.  And  I,  meanwhile,  who  had  been  losing  caste 
among  my  friends,  as  holding  myself  aloof  from  the  asso- 
ciation of  the  body,  began  to  rise  in  everybody's  favor. 
** Ingham's  a  good  fellow — always  on  hand;"  "never  talks 
much,  but  does  the  right  thing  at  the  right  time;"  "is  not 
as  unpunctual  as  he  used  to  be — he  comes  early,  and  sits 
through  to  the  end."  "He  has  got  over  his  old  talkative 
habit,  too.  I  spoke  to  a  friend  of  his  about  it  once;  and  I 
think  Ingham  took  it  kindly,"  etc.,  etc. 

.  .  .  Polly  is  more  rash  than  I  am,  as  the  reader  has  ob- 
served in  the  outset  of  this  memoir.  She  risked  Dennis 
one  night  under  the  eyes  of  her  own  sex.  Governor  Gorges 
had  always  been  very  kind  to  us,  and,  when  he  gave  his 
great  annual  party  to  the  town,  asked  us.  I  confess  I 
hated  to  go.  I  was  deep  in  the  new  volume  of  Pfeiffer's 
"Mystics,"  which  Haliburton  had  just  sent  me  from  Bos- 
ton. "But  how  rude,"  said  Polly,  "not  to  return  the 
Governor's  civility  and  Mrs.  Gorges's,  when  they  will  be 
sure  to  ask  why  you  are  away !"  Still  I  demurred,  and  at 
last  she,  with  the  wit  of  Eve  and  of  Semiramis  conjoined, 
let  me  off  by  saying  that,  if  I  would  go  in  with  her  and 


212  American  Literature 

sustain  the  initial  conversations  with  the  Governor  and  the 
ladies  staying  there,  she  would  risk  Dennis  for  the  rest  of 
the  evening.  And  that  was  just  what  we  did.  She  took 
Dennis  in  training  all  that  afternoon,  instructed  him  in 
fashionable  conversation,  cautioned  him  against  the  temp- 
tations of  the  supper  table — and  at  nine  in  the  evening 
he  drove  us  all  down  in  the  carryall.  I  made  the  grand 
star  entree  with  Polly  and  the  pretty  Walton  girls,  who 
were  staying  with  us.  We  had  put  Dennis  into  a  great 
rough  top-coat,  without  his  glasses,  and  the  girls  never 
dreamed  in  the  darkness,  of  looking  at  him.  He  sat  in  the 
carriage,  at  the  door,  while  we  entered.  I  did  the  agree- 
able to  Mrs.  Gorges,  was  introduced  to  her  niece.  Miss 
Fernanda;  I  complimented  Judge  Jeffries  on  his  decision 
in  the  great  case  of  D'Aulnay  vs.  Laconia  Mining  Company; 
I  stepped  into  the  dressing-room  for  a  moment,  stepped  out 
for  another,  walked  home  after  a  nod  with  Dennis  and 
tying  the  horse  to  a  pump;  and  while  I  walked  home,  Mr. 
Frederic  Ingham,  my  double,  stepped  in  through  the  library 
into  the  Gorges's  grand  salon. 

Oh !  Polly  died  of  laughing  as  she  told  me  of  it  at  mid- 
night !  And  even  here,  where  I  have  to  teach  my  hands 
to  hew  the  beech  for  stakes  to  fence  our  cave,  she  dies  of 
laughing  as  she  recalls  it — and  says  that  single  occasion 
was  worth  all  we  have  paid  for  it.  Gallant  Eve  that  she 
is !  She  joined  Dennis  at  the  Hbrary  door,  and  in  an  in- 
stant presented  him  to  Doctor  Ochterlony,  from  Baltimore, 
who  was  on  a  visit  in  town,  and  was  talking  with  her  as 
Dennis  came  in.  ''Mr.  Ingham  would  like  to  hear  what 
you  were  telling  us  about  your  success  among  the  German 
population."  And  Dennis  bowed  and  said,  in  spite  of  a 
scowl  from  Polly, ''  I'm  very  glad  you  liked  it."  But  Doctor 
Ochterlony  did  not  observe,  and  plunged  into  the  tide  of 
explanation;  Dennis  listened  like  a  prime  minister,  and 
bowing  like  a  mandarin,  which  is,  I  suppose,  the  same  thing. 
.  .  .  So  was  it  that  before  Doctor  Ochterlony  came  to 
the  "success,"  or  near  it.  Governor  Gorges  came  to  Dennis 
and  asked  him  to  hand  Mrs.  Jeffries  down  to  supper,  a 
request  which  he  heard  with  great  joy. 


Writers  of  the  Mid- Century  and  After    213 

Polly  was  skipping  round  the  room,  I  guess,  gay  as  a 
lark.  Auchmuty  came  to  her  ''in  pity  for  poor  Ingham," 
who  was  so  bored  by  the  stupid  pundit — and  Auchmuty 
could  not  understand  why  I  stood  it  so  long.  But  when 
Dennis  took  Mrs.  Jeffries  down,  Polly  could  not  resist 
standing  near  them.  He  was  a  little  flustered,  till  the 
sight  of  the  eatables  and  drinkables  gave  him  the  same 
Mercian  courage  which  it  gave  Diggory.  A  little  excited 
then,  he  attempted  one  or  two  of  his  speeches  to  the  Judge's 
lady.  But  little  he  knew  how  hard  it  was  to  get  in  even  a 
promptu  there  edgewise.  ''Very  well,  I  thank  you,"  said 
he,  after  the  eating  elements  were  adjusted;  "and  you?" 
And  then  did  not  he  have  to  hear  about  the  mumps,  and 
the  measles,  and  arnica,  and  belladonna,  and  camomile 
flower,  and  dodecatheon,  till  she  changed  oysters  for  salad; 
and  then  about  the  old  practice  and  the  new,  and  what  her 
sister  said,  and  what  her  sister's  friend  said,  and  what  the 
physician  to  her  sister's  friend  said,  and  then  what  was  said 
by  the  brother  of  the  sister  of  the  physician  of  the  friend 
of  her  sister,  exactly  as  if  it  had  been  in  Ollendorff  ?  There 
was  a  moment's  pause,  as  she  declined  champagne.  "I 
am  very  glad  you  like  it,"  said  Dennis,  which  he  never 
should  have  said  but  to  one  who  compKmented  a  sermon. 
"Oh !  you  are  so  sharp,  Mr.  Ingham  !  No  !  I  never  drink 
any  wine  at  all — except  sometimes  in  summer  a  little  cur- 
rant shrub — from  our  own  currants,  you  know.  My  own 
mother — that  is,  I  call  her  my  own  mother,  because,  you 
know,  I  do  not  remember,"  etc.,  etc.,  etc.;  till  they  came  to 
the  candied  orange  at  the  end  of  the  feast,  when  Dennis, 
rather  confused,  thought  he  must  say  something,  and  tried 
No.  4 — "I  agree,  in  general,  with  my  friend  the  other  side 
of  the  room" — which  he  never  should  have  said  but  at  a 
pubHc  meeting.  But  Mrs.  Jeffries,  who  never  listens  ex- 
cepting to  understand,  caught  him  up  instantly  with, 
"Well,  I'm  sure  my  husband  returns  the  compliment;  he 
always  agrees  with  you — though  we  do  worship  with  the 
Methodists;  but  you  know,  Mr.  Ingham,"  etc.,  etc.,  etc., 
till  they  move  upstairs;  and  as  Dennis  led  her  through  the 
hall,  he  was  scarcely  understood  by  any  but  Polly,  as  he 


214  American  Literature 

said,  "There  has  been  so  much  said,  and,  on  the  whole,  so 
well  said,  that  I  will  not  occupy  the  time." 

His  great  resource  the  rest  of  the  evening  was  standing 
in  the  library,  carrying  on  animated  conversations  with 
one  and  another  in  much  the  same  way.  .  .  . 

But  I  see  I  loiter  on  my  story,  which  is  rushing  to  the 
plunge.  .  .  . 

It  was  thus  it  happened.  There  is  an  excellent  fellow 
— once  a  minister — I  will  call  him  Isaacs — who  deserves 
well  of  the  world  till  he  dies,  and  after,  because  he  once, 
in  a  real  exigency,  did  the  right  thing,  in  the  right  way,  at 
the  right  time,  as  no  other  man  could  do  it.  .  .  .  It  came 
time  for  the  annual  county  meeting  ...  to  be  held  at  Na- 
guadavick.  Isaacs  came  round,  good  fellow !  to  arrange  for 
it — got  the  town-hall,  got  the  Governor  to  preside  (the  saint ! 
He  ought  to  have  triplet  doubles  provided  him  by  law),  and 
then  came  to  get  me  to  speak.  "No,"  I  said,  "I  would  not 
speak  if  ten  Governors  presided.  I  do  not  believe  in  the 
enterprise.  If  I  spoke,  it  should  be  to  say  children  should 
take  hold  of  the  prongs  of  the  forks  and  the  blades  of  the 
knives.  I  would  subscribe  ten  dollars,  but  I  would  not 
speak  a  mill."  So  poor  Isaacs  went  his  way  sadly,  to  coax 
Auchmuty  to  speak,  and  Delafield.  I  went  out.  Not  long 
after,  he  came  back  and  told  Polly  that  they  promised  to 
speak,  the  Governor  would  speak,  and  he  himself  would 
close  with  the  quarterly  report  and  some  interesting  anec- 
dotes regarding  Miss  Biffin's  way  of  handUng  her  knife 
and  Mr.  NelUs's  way  of  footing  his  fork.  "Now,  if  Mr. 
Ingham  will  only  come  and  sit  on  the  platform,  he  need  not 
say  one  word;  but  it  will  show  well  in  the  paper — it  will 
show  that  the  Sandemanians  take  as  much  interest  in  the 
movement  as  the  Armenians  or  the  Mesopotamians,  and 
will  be  a  great  favor  to  me."  Polly,  good  soul !  was  tempted, 
and  she  promised.  She  knew  Mrs.  Isaacs  was  starving, 
and  the  babies — she  knew  Dennis  was  at  home — and 
she  promised !  Night  came,  and  I  returned.  I  heard  her 
story.  I  was  sorry.  I  doubted.  But  Polly  had  prom- 
ised to  beg  me,  and  I  dared  all !  I  told  Dennis  to  hold  his 
peace,  under  all  circumstances,  and  sent  him  down. 


Writers  of  the  Mid- Century  and  After     215 

It  was  not  half  an  hour  more  before  he  returned  wild  with 
excitement — in  a  perfect  Irish  fury — which  it  was  long  before 
I  understood.    But  I  knew  at  once  that  he  had  undone  me ! 

What  happened  was  this.  The  audience  got  together, 
attracted  by  Governor  Gorges's  name.  There  were  a 
thousand  people.  Poor  Gorges  was  late  from  Augusta. 
They  became  impatient.  He  came  in  direct  from  the 
train  at  last,  really  ignorant  of  the  object  of  the  meeting. 
He  opened  it  in  the  fewest  possible  words,  and  said  other 
gentlemen  were  present  who  would  entertain  them  better 
than  he. 

The  audience  were  disappointed,  but  waited.  The  GU)v- 
ernor,  prompted  by  Isaacs,  said,  "The  Honorable  Mr. 
Delafield  will  address  you."  Delafield  had  forgotten  the 
knives  and  forks,  and  was  playing  the  Ruy  Lopez  opening 
at  the  chess  club. 

"The  Reverend  Mr.  Auchmuty  will  address  you."  Auch- 
muty  had  promised  to  speak  late,  and  was  at  the  school 
committee. 

"I  see  Doctor  Stearns  in  the  hall;  perhaps  he  will  say  a 
word."  Doctor  Stearns  said  he  had  come  to  listen  and 
not  to  speak. 

The  Governor  and  Isaacs  whispered.  The  Governor 
looked  at  Dennis,  who  was  resplendent  on  the  platform; 
but  Isaacs,  to  give  him  his  due,  shook  his  head.  But  the 
look  was  enough. 

A  miserable  lad,  ill-bred,  who  had  once  been  in  Boston, 
thought  it  would  sound  well  to  call  for  me,  and  peeped 
out,  "Ingham!"  A  few  more  wretches  cried  "Ingham!" 
"Ingham!"  Still  Isaacs  was  firm;  but  the  Governor, 
anxious,  indeed,  to  prevent  a  row,  knew  I  would  say  some- 
thing, and  said:  "Our  friend,  Mr.  Ingham,  is  always  pre- 
pared; and,  though  we  had  not  relied  upon  him,  he  will 
say  a  word  perhaps." 

Applause  followed,  which  turned  Dennis's  head.  He 
rose,  fluttered,  and  tried  No.  3:  "There  has  been  so  much 
said,  and,  on  the  whole,  so  well  said,  that  I  will  not  longer 
occupy  the  time!"  and  sat  down,  looking  for  his  hat;  for 
things  seemed  squally. 


£16  American  Literature 

But  the  people  cried  "Go  on!  Go  on!"  and  some  ap- 
plauded. Dennis,  still  confused,  but  flattered  by  the 
applause,  to  which  neither  he  nor  I  are  used,  rose  again, 
and  this  time  tried  No.  2:  "I  am  very  glad  you  liked  it !" 
in  a  sonorous,  clear  delivery.  My  best  friends  stared.  All 
the  people  who  did  not  know  me  personally  yelled  with  de- 
light at  the  aspect  of  the  evening;  the  Governor  was  beside 
himself,  and  poor  Isaacs  thought  he  was  undone !  Alas,  it 
was  I !  A  boy  in  the  gallery  cried  in  a  loud  tone,  ''It's  all 
an  infernal  humbug,"  just  as  Dennis,  waving  his  hand, 
commanded  silence,  and  tried  No.  4:  "I  agree,  in  general, 
with  my  friend  the  other  side  of  the  room."  The  Governor 
doubted  his  senses  and  crossed  to  stop  him — not  in  time, 
however.  The  same  gallery  boy  shouted,  ''How's  your 
mother?"  and  Dennis,  now  completely  lost,  tried,  as  his 
last  shot.  No.  I,  vainly:  "Very  well,  thank  you;  and  you?" 

I  think  I  must  have  been  undone  already.  But  Dennis, 
like  another  Lockhard,  chose  "to  make  sicker." 

The  audience  rose  in  a  wliirl  of  amazement,  rage  and 
sorrow.  Some  other  impertinence,  aimed  at  Dennis,  broke 
all  restraint,  and,  in  pure  Irish,  he  delivered  himself  an 
address  to  the  gallery,  inviting  any  person  who  wished  to 
fight  to  come  down  and  do  so,  stating  that  they  were  all 
dogs  and  cowards  and  the  sons  of  dogs  and  cowards,  that 
he  would  take  any  five  of  them  single-handed.  "Shure, 
I  have  said  all  his  Riverence  and  the  Misthress  bade  me 
say,"  cried  he  in  defiance;  and,  seizing  the  Governor's 
cane  from  his  hand,  brandished  it,  quarter-staff  fashion, 
above  his  head.  He  was,  indeed,  got  from  the  hall  only 
with  the  greatest  difficulty  by  the  Governor,  the  City 
Marshal,  who  had  been  called  in,  and  the  Superintendent 
of  my  Sunday-school. 

The  universal  impression,  of  course,  was  that  the  Rev- 
erend Frederic  Ingham  had  lost  all  command  of  himself 
in  some  of  those  haunts  of  intoxication  which  for  fifteen 
years  I  had  been  laboring  to  destroy.  Till  this  moment, 
indeed,  that  is  the  impression  in  Naguadavick.  This  num- 
ber of  the  Atlantic  will  relieve  from  it  a  hundred  friends  of 
mine  who  have  been  sadly  wounded  by  that  notion  now 


Writers  of  the  Mid- Century  and  After     217 

for  years;  but  I  shall  not  be  likely  ever  to  show  my  head 
there  again. 

No.     My  double  has  undone  me. 

We  left  town  at  seven  the  next  morning.  I  came  to  No. 
9,  in  the  Third  Range,  and  settled  on  the  Minister's  Lot. 
In  the  new  towns  in  Maine,  the  first  settled  minister  has  a 
gift  of  a  hundred  acres  of  land.  I  am  the  first  settled  min- 
ister in  No.  9.  My  wife  and  little  Paulina  are  my  parish. 
We  raise  corn  enough  to  live  on  in  summer.  We  kill  bear's 
meat  enough  to  carbonize  it  in  winter.  I  work  on  steadily 
on  my  ^'Traces  of  Sandemanianism  in  the  Sixth  and  Seventh 
Centuries,"  which  I  hope  to  persuade  Phillips,  Sampson  & 
Company  to  publish  next  year.  We  are  very  happy,  but 
the  world  thinks  we  are  undone. — //,  yes,  and  perhaps. 

9.  Lewis  Wallace  (1827-1905),  usually  called  "Lew"  Wal- 
lace, was  born  in  Indiana.  He  served  with  distinction  in  the 
Civil  War  and  became  a  general  of  volunteers.  His  most 
widely  read  story  is  Ben  Hur,  a  Tale  of  the  Christy  which  has 
been  successfully  dramatized.  He  also  wrote  A  Prince  of 
India.     (For  readings  see  Bibliography,  page  234.) 

10.  Frank  R.  Stockton  (i 834-1 902)  was  a  Philadelphia 
writer  who,  says  Professor  Simonds,  "is  unique  among  Amer- 
ican story-writers  for  the  whimsical  mingling  of  the  serious  and 
the  humorous  in  fiction."  He  made  his  place  in  the  literary 
world  by  the  publication  of  Rudder  Grange  in  1879.  Ten  years 
later  he  wrote  the  short  story  The  Lady  or  the  Tiger  ?  with  which 
his  name  has  ever  since  been  associated. 

The  Lady  or  the  Tiger? 

In  the  very  olden  time,  there  lived  a  semi-barbaric  king, 
whose  ideas,  though  somewhat  polished  and  sharpened 
by  the  progressiveness  of  distant  Latin  neighbors,  were 
still  large,  florid,  and  untrammelled,  as  became  the  half 
of  him  which  was  barbaric. 

Among  the  borrowed  notions  by  which  his  barbarism 
had  become  semified  was  that  of  the  public  arena,  in  which, 
by  exhibitions  of  manly  and  beastly  valor,  the  minds  of  his 
subjects  were  refined  and  cultured. 


218  American  Literature 

But  even  here  the  exuberant  and  barbaric  fancy  asserted 
itself.  The  arena  of  the  king  was  built,  not  to  give  the 
people  an  opportunity  of  hearing  the  rhapsodies  of  dying 
gladiators,  nor  to  enable  them  to  view  the  inevitable  con- 
clusion of  a  conflict  between  religious  opinions  and  hungry 
jaws,  but  for  purposes  far  better  adapted  to  widen  and  de- 
velop the  mental  energies  of  the  people.  This  vast  amphi- 
theatre, with  its  encircling  galleries,  its  mysterious  vaults, 
and  its  unseen  passages,  was  an  agent  of  poetic  justice,  in 
which  crime  was  punished,  or  virtue  rewarded,  by  the 
decrees  of  an  impartial  and  incorruptible  chance. 

When  a  subject  was  accused  of  a  crime  of  sufficient  im- 
portance to  interest  the  king,  pubUc  notice  was  given  that 
on  an  appointed  day  the  fate  of  the  accused  person  would 
be  decided  in  the  king's  arena, — a  structure  which  well 
deserved  its  name;  for,  although  its  form  and  plan  were 
borrowed  from  afar,  its  purpose  emanated  solely  from 
the  brain  of  this  man,  who,  every  barleycorn  a  king,  knew 
no  tradition  to  which  he  owed  more  allegiance  than  pleased 
his  fancy,  and  who  ingrafted  on  every  adopted  form  of 
human  thought  and  action  the  rich  growth  of  his  barbaric 
idealism. 

When  all  the  people  had  assembled  in  the  galleries,  and 
the  king,  surrounded  by  his  court,  sat  high  up  on  his  throne 
of  royal  state  on  one  side  of  the  arena,  he  gave  a  signal,  a 
door  beneath  him  opened,  and  the  accused  subject  stepped 
out  into  the  amphitheatre.  Directly  opposite  him,  on  the 
other  side  of  the  enclosed  space,  were  two  doors,  exactly 
alike  and  side  by  side.  It  was  the  duty  and  the  privilege 
of  the  person  on  trial,  to  walk  directly  to  these  doors  and 
open  one  of  them.  He  could  open  either  door  he  pleased: 
he  was  subject  to  no  guidance  or  influence  but  that  of 
the  aforementioned  impartial  and  incorruptible  chance.  If 
he  opened  the  one,  there  came  out  of  it  a  hungry  tiger, 
the  fiercest  and  most  cruel  that  could  be  procured,  which 
immediately  sprang  upon  him,  and  tore  him  to  pieces,  as 
a  punishment  for  his  guilt.  The  moment  that  the  case  of 
the  criminal  was  thus  decided,  doleful  iron  bells  were 
clanged,  great  wails  went  up  from  the  hired  mourners 


Writers  of  the  Mid- Century  and  After     219 

posted  on  the  outer  rim  of  the  arena,  and  the  vast  audience, 
with  bowed  heads  and  downcast  hearts,  wended  slowly 
their  homeward  way,  mourning  greatly  that  one  so  young 
and  fair,  or  so  old  and  respected,  should  have  merited  so 
dire  a  fate. 

But,  if  the  accused  person  opened  the  other  door  there 
came  forth  from  it  a  lady,  the  most  suitable  to  his  years 
and  station  that  his  majesty  could  select  among  his  fair 
subjects;  and  to  this  lady  he  was  immediately  married,  as 
a  reward  of  his  innocence.  It  mattered  not  that  he  might 
already  possess  a  wife  and  family,  or  that  his  affections 
might  be  engaged  upon  an  object  of  his  own  selection:  the 
king  allowed  no  such  subordinate  arrangements  to  inter- 
fere with  his  great  scheme  of  retribution  and  reward.  The 
exercises,  as  in  the  other  instance,  took  place  immediately, 
and  in  the  arena.  Another  door  opened  beneath  the  king, 
and  a  priest,  followed  by  a  band  of  choristers,  and  dancing 
maidens  blowing  joyous  airs  on  golden  horns  and  treading 
an  epi thalamic  measure,  advanced  to  where  the  pair  stood, 
side  by  side;  and  the  wedding  was  promptly  and  cheerily 
solemnized.  Then  the  gay  brass  bells  rang  forth  their 
merry  peals,  the  people  shouted  glad  hurrahs,  and  the 
innocent  man,  preceded  by  children  strewing  flowers  on 
his  path,  led  his  bride  to  his  home. 

This  was  the  king's  semi-barbaric  method  of  administer- 
ing justice.  Its  perfect  fairness  is  obvious.  The  criminal 
could  not  know  out  of  which  door  would  come  the  lady: 
he  opened  either  he  pleased,  without  having  the  slightest 
idea  whether,  in  the  next  instant,  he  was  to  be  devoured 
or  married.  On  some  occasions  the  tiger  came  out  of  one 
door,  and  on  some  out  of  the  other.  The  decisions  of 
this  tribunal  were  not  only  fair,  they  were  positively  de- 
terminate: the  accused  person  was  instantly  punished  if 
he  found  himself  guilty;  and,  if  innocent,  he  was  rewarded 
on  the  spot,  whether  he  liked  it  or  not.  There  was  no 
escape  from  the  judgments  of  the  king's  arena.  .  .  . 

This  semi-barbaric  king  had  a  daughter  as  blooming  as 
his  most  florid  fancies,  and  with  a  soul  as  fervent  and  im- 
perious as  his  own.    As  is  usual  in  such  cases,  she  was 


220  American  Literature 

the  apple  of  his  eye,  and  was  loved  by  him  above  all  hu- 
manity. Among  his  courtiers  was  a  young  man  of  that 
fineness  of  blood  and  lowness  of  station  common  to  the 
conventional  heroes  of  romance  who  love  royal  maidens. 
This  royal  maiden  was  well  satisfied  with  her  lover,  for  he 
was  handsome  and  brave  to  a  degree  unsurpassed  in  all 
this  kingdom;  and  she  loved  him  with  an  ardor  that  had 
enough  of  barbarism  in  it  to  make  it  exceedingly  warm  and 
strong.  This  love  affair  moved  on  happily  for  many  months, 
until  one  day  the  king  happened  to  discover  its  existence. 
He  did  not  hesitate  nor  waver  in  regard  to  his  duty  in  the 
premises.  The  youth  was  immediately  cast  into  prison, 
and  a  day  was  appointed  for  his  trial  in  the  king's  arena. 
This,  of  course,  was  an  especially  important  occasion; 
and  his  majesty,  as  well  as  all  the  people,  was  greatly 
interested  in  the  workings  and  development  of  this  trial. 
Never  before  had  such  a  case  occurred;  never  before  had 
a  subject  dared  to  love  the  daughter  of  a  king.  In  after- 
years  such  things  became  commonplace  enough;  but  then 
they  were,  in  no  slight  degree,  novel  and  startling. 

The  tiger-cages  of  the  kingdom  were  searched  for  the 
most  savage  and  relentless  beasts,  from  which  the  fiercest 
monster  might  be  selected  for  the  arena;  and  the  ranks 
of  maiden  youth  and  beauty  throughout  the  land  were 
carefully  surveyed  by  competent  judges,  in  order  that  the 
young  man  might  have  a  fitting  bride  in  case  fate  did  not 
determine  for  him  a  different  destiny.  Of  course,  every- 
body knew  that  the  deed  with  which  the  accused  was 
charged  had  been  done.  He  had  loved  the  princess,  and 
neither  he,  she,  nor  any  one  else  thought  of  denying  the 
fact;  but  the  king  would  not  think  of  allowing  any  fact  of 
this  kind  to  interfere  with  the  workings  of  the  tribunal,  in 
which  he  took  such  great  delight  and  satisfaction.  No 
matter  how  the  affair  turned  out,  the  youth  would  be  dis- 
posed of;  and  the  king  would  take  an  aesthetic  pleasure  in 
watching  the  course  of  events,  which  would  determine 
whether  or  not  the  young  man  had  done  wrong  in  allowing 
himself  to  love  the  princess. 

The  appointed  day  arrived.     From  far  and  near  the  peo- 


Writers  of  the  Mid- Century  and  After     221 

pie  gathered,  and  thronged  the  great  galleries  of  the  arena; 
and  crowds,  unable  to  gain  admittance,  massed  themselves 
against  its  outside  walls.  The  king  and  his  court  were 
in  their  places,  opposite  the  twin  doors, — those  fateful 
portals,  so  terrible  in  their  similarity. 

All  was  ready.  The  signal  was  given.  A  door  beneath 
the  royal  party  opened,  and  the  lover  of  the  princess  walked 
into  the  arena.  Tall,  beautiful,  fair,  his  appearance  was 
greeted  with  a  low  hum  of  admiration  and  anxiety.  Half 
the  audience  had  not  known  so  grand  a  youth  had  lived 
among  them.  No  wonder  the  princess  loved  him !  What 
a  terrible  thing  for  him  to  be  there ! 

As  the  youth  advanced  into  the  arena  he  turned,  as  the 
custom  was,  to  bow  to  the  king:  but  he  did  not  think  at  all 
of  that  royal  personage;  his  eyes  were  fixed  upon  the  prin- 
cess, who  sat  to  the  right  of  her  father.  Had  it  not  been 
for  the  moiety  of  barbarism  in  her  nature,  it  is  probable 
that  lady  would  not  have  been  there;  but  her  intense  and 
fervid  soul  would  not  allow  her  to  be  absent  on  an  occasion 
in  which  she  was  so  terribly  interested.  From  the  mo- 
ment that  the  decree  had  gone  forth,  that  her  lover  should 
decide  his  fate  in  the  king's  arena,  she  had  thought  of 
nothing,  night  or  day,  but  this  great  event  and  the  various 
subjects  connected  with  it.  Possessed  of  more  power,  in- 
fluence, and  force  of  character  than  any  one  who  had  ever 
before  been  interested  in  such  a  case,  she  had  done  what  na 
other  person  had  done, — she  had  possessed  herself  of  the 
secret  of  the  doors.  She  knew  in  which  of  the  two  rooms 
that  lay  behind  those  doors,  stood  the  cage  of  the  tiger, 
with  its  open  front,  and  in  which  waited  the  lady.  Through 
these  thick  doors,  heavily  curtained  with  skins  on  the  inside, 
it  was  impossible  that  any  noise  or  suggestion  should  come 
from  within  to  the  person  who  should  approach  to  raise 
the  latch  of  one  of  them;  but  gold,  and  the  power  of  a 
woman's  will,  had  brought  the  secret  to  the  princess. 

And  not  only  did  she  know  in  which  room  stood  the 
lady  ready  to  emerge,  all  blushing  and  radiant,  should  her 
door  be  opened,  but  she  knew  who  the  lady  was.  It  was 
one  of  the  fairest  and  loveliest  of  the  damsels  of  the  court 


222  American  Literature 

who  had  been  selected  as  the  reward  of  the  accused  youth, 
should  he  be  proved  innocent  of  the  crime  of  aspiring  to 
one  so  far  above  him;  and  the  princess  hated  her.  .  .  . 

When  her  lover  turned  and  looked  at  her,  and  his  eye 
met  hers  as  she  sat  there  paler  and  whiter  than  any  one 
in  the  vast  ocean  of  anxious  faces  about  her,  he  saw,  by 
that  power  of  quick  perception  which  is  given  to  those 
whose  souls  are  one,  that  she  knew  behind  which  door 
crouched  the  tiger,  and  behind  which  stood  the  lady.  He 
had  expected  her  to  know  it.  He  understood  her  nature, 
and  his  soul  was  assured  that  she  would  never  rest  until  she 
had  made  plain  to  herself  this  thing,  hidden  to  all  other 
lookers-on,  even  to  the  king.  The  only  hope  for  the  youth 
in  which  there  was  any  element  of  certainty  was  based 
upon  the  success  of  the  princess  in  discovering  this  mystery; 
and  the  moment  he  looked  upon  her,  he  saw  she  had  suc- 
ceeded, as  in  his  soul  he  knew  she  would  succeed. 

Then  it  was  that  his  quick  and  anxious  glance  asked 
the  question:  "Which?"  It  was  as  plain  to  her  as  if  he 
shouted  it  from  where  he  stood.  There  was  not  an  instant 
to  be  lost.  The  question  was  asked  in  a  flash;  it  must 
be  answered  in  another. 

Her  right  arm  lay  on  the  cushioned  parapet  before  her. 
She  raised  her  hand,  and  made  a  slight,  quick  movement 
toward  the  right.  No  one  but  her  lover  saw  her.  Every 
eye  but  his  was  fixed  on  the  man  in  the  arena. 

He  turned,  and  with  a  firm  and  rapid  step  he  walked 
across  the  empty  space.  Every  heart  stopped  beating, 
every  breath  was  held,  every  eye  was  fixed  immovably 
upon  that  man.  Without  the  sHghtest  hesitation,  he  went 
to  the  door  on  the  right,  and  opened  it. 

Now,  the  point  of  the  story  is  this:  Did  the  tiger  come  out 
of  that  door  or  did  the  lady  ? 

The  more  we  reflect  upon  this  question,  the  harder  it  is 
to  answer.  It  involves  a  study  of  the  human  heart  which 
leads  us  through  devious  mazes  of  passion,  out  of  which 
it  is  difiicult  to  find  our  way.  Think  of  it,  fair  reader,  not 
as  if  the  decision  of  the  question  depended  upon  yourself, 


Writers  of  the  Mid- Century  and  After    223 

but  upon  that  hot-blooded,  semi-barbaric  princess,  her 
soul  at  a  white  heat  beneath  the  combined  fires  of  despair 
and  jealousy.     She  had  lost  him,  but  who  should  have  him  ? 

How  often,  in  her  waking  hours  and  in  her  dreams,  had 
she  started  in  wild  horror,  and  covered  her  face  with  her 
hands  as  she  thought  of  her  lover  opening  the  door  on  the 
other  side  of  which  waited  the  cruel  fangs  of  the  tiger ! 

But  how  much  oftener  had  she  seen  him  at  the  other 
door !  How  in  her  grievous  reveries  had  she  gnashed  her 
teeth,  and  torn  her  hair,  when  she  saw  his  start  of  raptur- 
ous delight  as  he  opened  the  door  of  the  lady !  How  her 
soul  had  burned  in  agony  when  she  had  seen  him  rush  to 
meet  that  woman,  with  her  flushing  cheek  and  sparkHng 
eye  of  triumph;  when  she  had  seen  him  lead  her  forth,  his 
whole  frame  kindled  with  the  joy  of  recovered  life;  when 
she  had  heard  the  glad  shouts  from  the  multitude,  and  the 
wild  ringing  of  the  happy  bells;  when  she  had  seen  the 
priest,  with  his  joyous  followers,  advance  to  the  couple, 
and  make  them  man  and  wife  before  her  very  eyes;  and 
when  she  had  seen  them  walk  away  together  upon  their 
path  of  flowers,  followed  by  the  tremendous  shouts  of  the 
hilarious  multitudes,  in  which  her  one  despairing  shriek 
was  lost  and  drowned ! 

Would  it  not  be  better  for  him  to  die  at  once,  and  go  to 
wait  for  her  in  the  blessed  regions  of  semi-barbaric  futurity  ? 

And  yet,  that  awful  tiger,  those  shrieks,  that  blood ! 

Her  decision  had  been  indicated  in  an  instant,  but  it 
had  been  made  after  days  and  nights  of  anguished  delib- 
eration. She  had  known  she  would  be  asked,  she  had 
decided  what  she  would  answer,  and,  without  the  slightest 
hesitation,  she  had  moved  her  hand  to  the  right. 

The  question  of  her  decision  is  one  not  to  be  lightly  con- 
sidered, and  it  is  not  for  me  to  presume  to  set  myself  up 
as  the  one  person  able  to  answer  it.  And  so  I  leave  it 
with  all  of  you:  Which  came  out  of  the  opened  door, — the 
lady,  or  the  tiger? 

II.  Bret  Harte  (1839-1902)  was  born  in  New  York  but 
went  to  California  when  very  young.    There  he  identified  him- 


224  American  Literature 

self  with  the  life  of  the  "  forty-niners/'  and  from  his  rich  ex- 
perience he  gave  us  stories  of  pioneer  life  in  the  West  which, 
perhaps,  are  the  best  of  their  kind  in  our  literature.  (Consult 
the  Bibliography,  page  234,  for  readings  from  Bret  Harte.) 

12.  Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich  (i 836-1907),  a  member  of  the 
New  York  group  of  writers,  was  a  novelist  and  a  writer  of 
exquisitely  finished  verse.  The  Story  of  a  Bad  Boy,  published 
in  1870,  made  his  name  famous.  He  was  editor  of  the  Atlantic 
Monthly  from  1881  to  1890.  (For  readings  see  Bibliography, 
page  234.) 

13.  Samuel  L.  Clemens  (1835-1910),  universally  known 
as  "  Mark  Twain,"  was  born  in  Missouri  and  spent  his  early 
days  in  the  region  of  the  Mississippi  River,  where,  after  his 
brief  schooling,  he  became  a  pilot  on  the  river  boats.  He 
gives  us  a  picture  of  this  Ufe  in  Tom  Sawyer  and  Huckleberry 
Finn.  Later  he  travelled  extensively  in  Europe.  The  result 
of  these  travels  was  The  Innocents  Abroad.  He  easily  ranks 
as  the  chief  of  American  humorists.  "  Tom  Sawyer  and  Huck- 
leberry Finn  are  prose  epics  of  American  life,"  says  Professor 
William  Lyon  Phelps. 

The  Notorious  Jumping  Frog  of  Calaveras  County 
(From  The  Jumping  Frog,  and  Other  Sketches) 

...  I  found  Simon  Wheeler  dozing  comfortably  by 
the  bar-room  stove  of  the  dilapidated  tavern  in  the  decayed 
mining  camp  of  Angel's,  and  I  noticed  that  he  was  fat  and 
bald-headed,  and  had  an  expression  of  winning  gentleness 
and  simplicity  upon  his  tranquil  countenance.  He  roused 
up  and  gave  me  good-day.  I  told  him  a  friend  of  mine 
had  commissioned  me  to  make  some  inquiries  about  a 
cherished  companion  of  his  boyhood,  named  Leonidas  W. 
Smiley — Rev.  Leonidas  W.  Smiley — a  young  minister  of 
the  gospel,  who,  he  had  heard,  was  at  one  time  a  resident 
of  Angel's  Camp.  I  added  that,  if  Mr.  Wheeler  could  tell 
me  anything  about  this  Rev.  Leonidas  W.  Smiley,  I  would 
feel  under  many  obligations  to  him. 

Simon  Wheeler  backed  me  into  a  corner  and  blockaded 
me  there  with  his  chair,  and  then  sat  down  and  reeled  off 


Writers  of  the  Mid-  Century  and  After    225 

the  monotonous  narrative  which  follows  this  paragraph. 
He  never  smiled,  he  never  frowned,  he  never  changed  his 
voice  from  the  gentle-flowing  key  to  which  he  tuned  his 
initial  sentence,  he  never  betrayed  the  slightest  suspicion 
of  enthusiasm;  but  all  through  the  interminable  narrative 
there  ran  a  vein  of  impressive  earnestness  and  sincerity 
which  showed  me  plainly  that,  so  far  from  his  imagining 
that  there  was  anything  ridiculous  or  funny  about  his 
story,  he  regarded  it  as  a  really  important  matter,  and 
admired  its  two  heroes  as  men  of  transcendent  genius  in 
finesse.  I  let  him  go  on  in  his  own  way,  and  never  inter- 
rupted him  once. 

"Rev.  Leonidas  W.  H'm,  Reverend  Le — well,  there 
was  a  feller  here  once  by  the  name  of  Jim  Smiley,  in  the 
winter  of  '49,  or  maybe  it  was  the  spring  of  '50 — I  don't 
recollect  exactly,  somehow,  though  what  makes  me  think 
it  was  one  or  the  other,  is  because  I  remember  the  big 
flume  warn' t  finished  when  he  first  come  to  the  camp; 
but  anyway,  he  was  the  curiousest  man  about,  always 
betting  on  anything  that  turned  up  you  ever  see,  if  he 
could  get  anybody  to  bet  on  the  other  side;  and  if  he 
couldn't  he'd  change  sides.  Any  way  that  suited  the  other 
side  would  suit  him — any  way,  just  so's  he  got  a  bet,  he 
was  satisfied.  But  still  he  was  lucky,  uncommon  lucky; 
he  'most  always  come  out  winner.  He  was  always  ready, 
and  laying  for  a  chance;  there  couldn't  be  no  solit'ry  thing 
mentioned  but  that  feller'd  offer  to  bet  on  it,  and  take 
ary  side  you  please,  as  I  was  just  telling  you.  If  there  was 
a  horse-race,  you'd  find  him  flush  or  you'd  find  him  busted 
at  the  end  of  it;  if  there  was  a  dog-fight,  he'd  bet  on  it; 
if  there  was  a  cat-fight,  he'd  bet  on  it;  if  there  was  a  chicken- 
fight,  he'd  bet  on  it;  why,  if  there  was  two  birds  setting 
on  the  fence,  he  would  bet  you  which  one  would  fly  first; 
or  if  there  was  a  camp-meeting,  he  would  be  there  reg'lar 
to  bet  on  Parson  Walker,  which  he  judged  to  be  the  best 
exhorter  about  here;  and  so  he  was,  too,  and  a  good  man. 
If  he  even  see  a  straddle-bug  start  to  go  anywheres,  he 
would  bet  you  how  long  it  would  take  him  to  get  to — to 
wherever  he  was  going  to;    and  if  you  took  him  up  he 


226  American  Literature 

would  foller  that  straddle-bug  to  Mexico,  but  what  he 
would  find  out  where  he  was  bound  for,  and  how  long 
he  was  on  the  road.  Lots  of  the  boys  here  has  seen  that 
Smiley,  and  can  tell  you  about  him.  Why,  it  never  made 
no  difference  to  him — he'd  bet  any  thing — the  dangdest 
feller.  Parson  Walker's  wife  laid  very  sick  once  for  a 
good  while,  and  it  seemed  as  if  they  warn't  going  to  save 
her;  but  one  morning  he  come  in,  and  Smiley  up  and  asked 
him  how  she  was,  and  he  said  she  was  consid'able  better — 
thank  the  Lord  for  his  inf 'nit  mercy ! — and  coming  on  so 
smart  that,  with  the  blessing  of  Prov'dence,  she'd  get  well 
yet;  and  Smiley,  before  he  thought,  says,  *Well,  I'll  resk 
two-and-a-half  she  don't  anyway.'  .  .  . 

"Well,  this-yer  Smiley  had  rat-tarriers,  and  cliicken- 
cocks,  and  tom-cats  and  all  them  kind  of  things,  till  you 
couldn't  rest,  and  you  couldn't  fetch  nothing  for  him  to 
bet  on  but  he'd  match  you.  He  ketched  a  frog  one  day, 
and  took  him  home,  and  said  he  cal'lated  to  educate  him; 
and  so  he  never  done  nothing  for  three  months  but  set  in 
his  back  yard  and  learn  that  frog  to  jump.  And  you  bet 
you  he  did  learn  him,  too.  He'd  give  him  a  little  punch 
behind,  and  the  next  minute  you'd  see  that  frog  whirling 
in  the  air  like  a  doughnut — see  him  turn  one  summerset, 
or  maybe  a  couple,  if  he  got  a  good  start,  and  come  down 
flat-footed  and  all  right,  like  a  cat.  He  got  him  up  so  in 
the  matter  of  ketching  flies  and  kep'  him  in  practice  so 
constant,  that  he'd  nail  a  fly  every  time  as  fur  as  he  could 
see  him.  Smiley  said  all  a  frog  wanted  was  education 
and  he  could  do  'most  anything — and  I  beHeve  him. 
Why,  I've  seen  him  set  Dan'l  Webster  down  here  on  this 
floor — Dan'l  Webster  was  the  name  of  the  frog — and  sing 
out,  'Flies,  Dan'l,  flies!'  and  quicker'n  you  could  wink 
he'd  spring  straight  up  and  snake  a  fly  off'n  the  counter 
there,  and  flop  down  on  the  floor  ag'in  as  solid  as  a  gob  of 
mud,  and  fall  to  scratching  the  side  of  his  head  with  his 
hind  foot  as  indifferent  as  if  he  hadn't  no  idea  he'd  been 
doin'  any  more'n  any  frog  might  do.  You  never  see  a 
frog  so  modest  and  straightfor'ard  as  he  was,  for  all  he  was 
so  gifted.    And  when  it  come  to  fair  and  square  jumping 


Writers  of  the  Mid-  Century  and  After     227 

on  a  dead  level,  he  could  get  over  more  ground  at  one 
straddle  than  any  animal  of  his  breed  you  ever  see.  Jump- 
ing on  a  dead  level  was  his  strong  suit,  you  understand; 
and  when  it  come  to  that,  Smiley  would  ante  up  money 
on  him  as  long  as  he  had  a  red.  Smiley  was  monstrous 
proud  of  his  frog,  and  well  he  might  be  for  fellers  that  had 
travelled  and  been  everywheres,  all  said  he  laid  over  any 
frog  that  ever  they  see. 

''Well,  Smiley  kep'  the  beast  in  a  little  lattice  box,  and 
he  used  to  fetch  him  down  town  sometimes  and  lay  for  a 
bet.  One  day  a  feller — a  stranger  in  the  camp,  he  was 
— come  acrost  him  with  his  box,  and  says: 

'"What  might  it  be  that  you've  got  in  the  box?' 

"And  Smiley  says,  sorter  indifferent-like,  'It  might  be 
a  parrot,  or  it  might  be  a  canary,  maybe,  but  it  ain't — 
it's  only  just  a  frog. ' 

"And  the  feller  took  it,  and  looked  at  it  careful,  and 
turned  it  round  this  way  and  that,  and  says,  'H'm — so  'tis. 
Well,  what's  he  good  for  ? ' 

"'Well,'  Smiley  says,  easy  and  careless,  'he's  good 
enough  for  one  thing,  I  should  judge — he  can  outjump  any 
frog  in  Calaveras  County.' 

"The  feller  took  the  box  again,  and  took  another  long, 
particular  look,  and  give  it  back  to  Smiley,  and  says,  very 
deliberate,  'Well,'  he  says,  'I  don't  see  no  p'ints  about  that 
frog  that's  any  better 'n  any  other  frog.' 

"'Maybe  you  don't,'  Smiley  says.  'Maybe  you  under- 
stand frogs,  and  maybe  you  don't  understand  'em;  maybe 
you've  had  experience,  and  maybe  you  ain't  only  a  ama- 
ture,  as  it  were.  Anyways,  I've  got  my  opinion,  and  I'll 
resk  forty  dollars  that  he  can  outjump  any  frog  in  Calaveras 
County.' 

"And  the  feller  studied  a  minute,  and  then  says,  kinder 
sad-like,  'Well,  I'm  only  a  stranger  here,  and  I  ain't  got 
no  frog;  but  if  I  had  a  frog,  I'd  bet  you.' 

"And  then  Smiley  says,  'That's  all  right — that's  all 
right — if  you'll  hold  my  box  a  minute,  I'll  go  and  get  you 
a  frog.'  And  so  the  feller  took  the  box,  and  put  up  his 
forty  dollars  along  with  Smiley's,  and  set  down  to  wait. 


228  American  Literature 

''So  he  set  there  a  good  while,  thinking  and  thinking  to 
hisself,  and  then  he  got  the  frog  out  and  prized  his  mouth 
open,  and  took  a  teaspoon  and  filled  him  full  of  quail-shot 
— filled  him  pretty  near  up  to  his  chin — and  set  him  on 
the  floor.  Smiley  he  went  to  the  swamp  and  slopped 
around  in  the  mud  for  a  long  time,  and  finally  he  ketched 
a  frog,  and  fetched  him  in,  and  give  him  to  this  feller,  and 
says: 

"'Now,  if  you're  ready,  set  him  alongside  of  Dan'l, 
with  his  fore  paws  just  even  with  DanTs,  and  I'll  give  the 
word.'  Then  he  says,  'One — two — three — gitl^  and  him 
and  the  feller  touched  up  the  frogs  from  behind,  and  the 
new  frog  hopped  off  lively,  but  Dan'l  gave  a  heave,  and 
hysted  up  his  shoulders — so — like  a  Frenchman,  but  it 
warn't  no  use — he  couldn't  budge;  he  was  planted  as 
solid  as  a  church,  and  he  couldn't  no  more  stir  than  if  he 
was  anchored  out.  Smiley  was  a  good  deal  surprised,  and 
he  was  disgusted  too,  but  he  didn't  have  no  idea  what  the 
matter  was,  of  course. 

"The  feller  took  the  money  and  started  away;  and  when 
he  was  going  out  at  the  door,  he  sorter  jerked  his  thumb 
over  his  shoulder — so — at  Dan'l  and  says  again,  very  de- 
liberate, 'Well,'  he  says,  './  don't  see  no  p'ints  about  that 
frog  that's  any  better 'n  any  other  frog.' 

"Smiley  he  stood  scratching  his  head  and  looking  down 
at  Dan'l  a  long  time,  and  at  last  he  says,  'I  do  wonder 
what  in  the  nation  that  frog  throw'd  off  for — I  wonder  if 
there  ain't  something  the  matter  with  him — he  'pears  to 
look  mighty  baggy,  somehow.'  And  he  ketched  Dan'l 
by  the  nap  of  the  neck,  and  hefted  him,  and  says,  'Why, 
blame  my  cats  if  he  don't  weigh  five  pound!'  and  turned 
him  upside  down,  and  he  belched  out  a  double  handful  of 
shot.  And  then  he  see  how  it  was,  and  he  was  the  maddest 
man — he  set  the  frog  down  and  took  out  after  the  feller, 
but  he  never  ketched  him.    And " 


But,  by  your  leave,  I  did  not  think  that  a  continuation 
of  the  history  of  the  enterprising  vagabond  Jim  Smiley 


Writers  of  the  Mid-  Century  and  After     229 

would  be  likely  to  afford  me  much  information  concerning 
the  Rev.  Leonidas  W.  Smiley,  and  so  I  started  away. 


14.  Elizabeth  Stuart  Phelps  Ward  (1844-1911)  was  a 
Boston  woman  who  became  known  in  the  literary  world  through 
her  mystical  story  The  Gates  Ajar,  published  in  1868.  She 
wrote  many  other  stories  both  long  and  short.  Though  she 
lived  on  into  the  twentieth  century  her  work  belongs  to  the 
older  generation. 

The  Day  of  Judgment 
(From  Trotty^s  Wedding  Tour) 

I  am  fourteen  years  old  and  Jill  is  twelve  and  a  quarter. 
Jill  is  my  brother.  That  isn't  his  name,  you  know;  his 
name  is  Timothy  and  mine  is  George  Zacharias;  but 
they've  always  called  us  Jack  and  Jill.  .  .  . 

Well,  Jill  and  I  had  an  invitation  to  Aunt  John's  this 
summer,  and  that  was  how  we  happened  to  be  there.  .  .  . 

I'd  rather  go  to  Aunt  John's  than  any  where  else  in  this 
world.  When  I  was  a  little  fellow  I  used  to  think  I'd  rather 
go  to  Aunt  John's  than  to  go  to  Heaven.  But  I  never 
dared  to  tell.  .  .  . 

She'd  invited  us  to  come  on  the  12  th  of  August.  It 
takes  all  day  tcPget  to  Aunt  John's.  She  lives  at  Little 
River  in  New  Hampshire  away  up.  You  have  to  wait 
at  South  Lawrence  in  a  poky  little  depot,  .  .  .  and  you 
get  sonie  played  out.  At  least  I  don't  but  Jill  does.  So 
we  bought  a  paper  and  Jill  sat  up  and  read  it.  When 
he'd  sat  a  minute  and  read  along: 

"Look  here  !"  said  he. 

"Look  where?"  said  I. 

"Why,  there's  going  to  be  a  comet  to-night,"  said  Jill. 

"Who  cares?"  said  L 

Jill  laid  down  the  paper,  and  crunched  a  pop-corn  all 
up  before  he  answered  that.  Then  said  he,  "I  don't  see 
why  father  didn't  tell  us.  I  s'pose  he  thought  we'd  be 
frightened,  or  something.  Why,  s'posing  the  world  did 
come  to  an  end?    That's  what  this  paper  says.     *It  is 


230  American  Literature 

predicted' — where's  my  place?  O!  I  see — ^predicted  by 
learned  men  that  a  comet  will  come  into  con — conjunction 
with  out  plant ' — no — '  our  planet  this  night.  Whether  we 
shall  be  plunged  into  a  wild  vortex  of  angry  space,  or 
suffocated  with  n-o-x — noxious  gases,  or  scorched  to  a 
helpless  crisp,  or  blasted  at  once  into  eternal  an-ni-hi '" 

A  gust  of  wind  grabbed  the  paper  out  of  Jill's  hand  just 
then,  and  took  it  out  of  the  window;  so  I  never  heard  the 
rest.  .  .  . 

"Father  isn't  a  goose,"  said  I.  "He  didn't  think  it 
worth  mentioning.  He  isn't  going  to  be  afraid  of  a  comet 
at  his  time  of  life!" 

So  we  didn't  think  any  more  about  the  comet  till  we 
got  to  Aunt  John's.  .  .  .  There  was  company  there.  .  .  . 
It  wasn't  a  relation,  only  an  old  schoolmate,  and  her 
name  was  Miss  Togy;  so  she'd  come  without  an  invita- 
tion, and  had  to  have  the  spare  room  because  she  was  a 
lady.  That  was  how  Jill  and  I  came  to  be  put  in  the 
little  chimney  bedroom.  .  .  . 

That  Uttle  chimney  bedroom  is  the  funniest  place  you 
ever  slept  in.  .  .  .  There'd  been  a  chimney  once,  and  it 
ran  up  by  the  window,  and  grandfather  had  it  taken 
away.  It  was  a  big,  old,  o/J-fashioned  chimney,  and  it 
left  the  funniest  Uttle  gouge  in  the  room !  So  the  bed 
went  in  as  nice  as  could  be.  We  couldw't  see  much  but 
the  ceiling  when  we  got  to  bed. 

"It's  pretty  dark,"  said  Jill;  "I  shouldn't  wonder  if  it 
did  blow  up  a  little.     Wouldn't  it  scare — Miss — Bogy !" 

"Togy,"  said  I. 

"Well,  T-o— "  said  Jill;  and  right  in  the  middle  of  it 
he  went  off  as  sound  as  a  weasel. 

The  Aext  thing  I  can  remember  is  a  horrible  noise —  I 
can't  think  of  but  one  thing  in  this  world  it  was  like,  and 
that  isn't  in  this  world  so  much.  I  mean  the  Last  Trum- 
pet, with  the  Angel  blowing  as  he  blows  in  my  old  Primer. 

But  the  next  thing  I  remember  is  hearing  Jill  sit  up  in 
bed, — for  I  couldn't  see  him,  it  was  so  dark, — and  his^ 
piping  out  the  other  half  of  Miss  Togy's  name  just  as  he 
had  left  it  when  he  went  to  sleep: 


Writers  of  the  Mid- Century  and  After     231 

^^Gy!  ^o-gy!  Fo-gyl  Sosi-kyI — O,"  said  Jill,  com- 
ing to  at  last,  *'I  thought  .  .  .  why,  what's  up?" 

I  was  up,  but  I  couldn't  tell  what  else  was,  for  a  little 
while.  I  went  to  the  window.  It  was  as  dark  as  a  great 
rat-hole  out-of-doors,  all  but  a  streak  of  lightning  and  an 
awful  thunder,  as  if  the  world  was  cracking  all  to  pieces.  .  .  . 

*'Come  to  bed!"  shouted  Jill,  "you'll  get  struck,  and 
then  that'll  kill  me." 

I  went  back  to  bed,  for  I  didn't  know  what  else  to  do. 
We  crawled  down  under  the  clothes  and  covered  ourselves 
all  up. 

''W-ould — you — call  Aunt — John?"  asked  Jill.  He  was 
'most  choked.     I  came  up  for  air. 

"No,"  said  I,  "I  don't  think  I'd  call  Aunt  John." 

I  should  have  liked  to  call  Aunt  John  by  that  time;  but 
then  I  should  have  felt  ashamed. 

"I  s'pose  she  has  got  her  hands  full  with  Miss  Croaky, 
anyway,"  chattered  Jill,  bobbing  up  for  a  breath,  and  then 
bobbing  under  again. 

By  that  time  the  storm  was  the  worst  storm  I  had  ever 
seen  in  my  life — it  grew  worse  and  worse.  Thunder, 
lightning,  and  wind'!  Wind,  lightning,  and  thunder !  Rain 
and  roar  and  awfulness !  I  don't  know  how  to  tell  how 
awful  it  was.  ... 

In  the  middle  of  the  biggest  peal  we'd  had  yet,  up  jumped 
Jill.  "Jack  ! "  said  he,  "  that  comet ! "  I'd  never  thought 
of  the  comet  till  that  minute;  I  felt  an  ugly  feeHng  and  a 
little  cold  all  over.  "It  is  the  comet!"  said  Jill.  "It  is 
the  Day  of  Judgment,  Jack."  .  .  . 

Then  it  happened.  It  happened  so  fast  I  didn't  even 
have  time  to  get  my  head  under  the  clothes. 

First  there  was  a  creak.  Then  a  crash.  Then  we  felt 
a  shake  as  if  a  giant  pushed  his  shoulder  up  through  the 
floor  and  shoved  us.  Then  we  doubled  up.  And  then 
we  began  to  fall.  The  floor  opened,  and  we  went  through. 
I  heard  the  bed-post  hit  as  we  went  by.  .  .  .  Then  I  felt 
another  crash.  Then  we  began  to  fall  again.  Then  we 
bumped  down  hard.  After  that  we  stopped  falling.  I 
lay  still.     My  heels  were  doubled  up  over  my  head.     I 


232  American  Literature 

thought  my  neck  would  break.  But  I  never  dared  to  stir. 
I  thought  I  was  dead. 

By  and  by  I  wondered  if  Jill  were  not  dead  too.  So  I 
undoubled  my  neck  a  Uttle  and  found  some  air.  It  seemed 
to  be  just  as  uncomfortable  ...  to  breathe  without  air 
when  you  were  dead  as  when  you  weren't. 

I  called  out  softly,  ^^ill!"  No  answer.  ''Jill!''  Not 
a  sound.     ''O— JILL!" 

But  he  did  not  speak.  So  then  I  knew  Jill  must  be 
dead,  at  any  rate.  I  couldn't  help  wondering  why  he  was 
so  much  deader  than  I  that  he  couldn't  answer  a  fellow. 
Pretty  soon  I  heard  a  rustUng  noise  around  my  feet.  Then 
a  weak,  sick  kind  of  a  noise — just  the  noise  I  always  had 
supposed  ghosts  would  make  if  they  talked. 

^7ack?" 

^*Is  that  you,  Jill?" 

*'I — suppose — so.     Is  it  you.  Jack?" 

' '  Yes .     Are  you  dead  ?  " 

''I  don't  know.     Are  you?" 

*'I  guess  I  must  be  if  you  are.  How  awfully  dark  it 
is!" 

"Awfully  dark !    It  must  have  been  the  comet !" 

''Yes;  did  you  get  much  hurt?" 

"Not  much —    I  say — ^Jack?" 

"What?" 

"If  it  is  the  Judgment  Day — "  Jill  broke  up.  So  did 
I.  We  lay  as  still  as  we  could.  If  it  were  the  Judgment 
Day 

"Jill!"  said  L 

"Oh,  dear  me!"  sobbed  Jill. 

We  were  both  crying  by  that  time.  I  don't  feel  ashamed 
to  own  up,  as  far  as  I'm  concerned. 

"If  I'd  known,"  said  I,  "that  the  Day  of  Judgment  was 
coming  on  the  12th  of  August,  I  wouldn't  have  been  so  mean 
about  that  jack-knife  of  yours  with  the  notch  in  it !" 

"And  I  wouldn't  have  eaten  up  your  luncheon  that  day 
last  winter  when  I  got  mad  at  you,"  said  Jill. 

"Nor  we  wouldn't  have  cheated  mother  about  smoking, 
vacations,"  said  I. 


Writers  of  the  Mid-  Century  and  After     233 

"I'd  never  have  played  with  the  Bailey  boys  out  behind 
the  barn!"  said  Jill. 

"I  wonder  where  the  comet  went  to,"  said  I. 

"'Whether  we  shall  be  plunged  into/"  quoted  Jill,  in  a 
horrible  whisper,  from  that  dreadful  newspaper,  "'shall 
be  plunged  into  a  wild  vortex  of  angry  space — or  suffo- 
cated with  noxious  gases — or  scorched  to  a  helpless  crisp 
— or  blasted '" 

"When  do  you  suppose  they'll  come  after  us?"  I  in- 
terrupted Jill. 

That  very  minute  somebody  came.  We  heard  a  step, 
and  then  another.  Then  a  heavy  bang.  Jill  howled  out 
a  little.  I  didn't,  for  I  was  thinking  how  the  cellar  door 
banged  Hke  that. 

Then  came  a  voice,  an  awful,  hoarse  and  trembling  voice 
as  ever  you'd  want  to  hear.     "  George  Zacharias !" 

Then  I  knew  it  must  be  the  Judgment  Day  and  that  the 
Angel  had  me  up  in  court  to  answer  him.  For  you 
couldn't  expect  an  angel  to  call  you  Jack  when  you  were 
dead. 

"George  Zacharias!"  said  the  awful  voice  again.  I 
didn't  know  what  else  to  do,  I  was  so  frightened,  so  I  just 
hollered  out,  "Here !"  as  I  do  at  school. 

"Timothy !"  came  the  voice  once  more. 

Now  Jill  had  a  bright  idea.  Up  he  shouted,  "Absent !" 
at  the  top  of  his  lungs. 

"George !  Jack !  Jill !  where  are  you?  Are  you  killed? 
O,  wait  a  minute  and  I'll  bring  a  light !" 

This  didn't  sound  so  much  like  Judgment  Day  as  it  did 
like  Aunt  John.  I  began  to  feel  better.  So  did  Jill.  I 
sat  up.  So  did  he.  It  wasn't  a  minute  till  the  light 
came  into  sight  and  something  that  looked  like  the  cellar 
door,  the  cellar  stairs,  and  Aunt  John's  spotted  wrapper, 
and  Miss  Togy  in  a  night-gown,  away  behind,  as  white  as 
a  ghost.  Aunt  John  held  the  Hght  above  her  head  and 
looked  down.  I  don't  believe  I  shall  ever  see  an  angel 
that  will  make  me  feel  any  better  to  look  at  than  Aunt 
John  did  that  night. 

"0  you  blessed  boys !"  said  Aunt  John, — she  was  laugh- 


^34  American  Literature 

ing  and  crying  together.  "To  think  that  you  should  have 
fallen  through  the  old  chimney  to  the  cellar  floor  and  be 
sitting  there  alive  in  such  a  funny  heap  as  that ! " 

That  was  just  what  we  had  done.  The  old  flooring — 
not  very  secure — had  given  way  in  the  storm;  and  we*d 
gone  down  through  two  stories,  where  the  chimney  ought 
to  have  been,  jam !  into  the  cellar  on  the  coal  heap,  and  all 
as  good  as  ever  excepting  the  bedstead  I 

BIBLIOGRAPHY 
I.     For  Further  Illustration 

Alcott,  L.:  Eight  Cousins. 

Little  Men. 

Little  Women. 
Aldrich,  T.  B.:    Marjorie    Daw.     (In    Marjorie    Daw    and    Other 
Stories.) 

Phre   Antoine^s   Date    Palm.     (In    Marjorie    Daw   afid   Other 
Stories.) 

Two  Bites  at  a  Cherry. 

Babie  Bell.     Thalia.     (Poems.) 
Clemens,  S.  L. :  A  Dog^s  Tale. 

Col.  Mulberry  Sellers. 

Huckleberry  Finn. 

Innocents  Abroad. 

Tom  Sawyer. 
Hale,  E.  E. :  The  Man  Without  a  Country. 
Harte,  B.:  M^Liss.     (In  Luck  of  Roaring  Camp.) 

Tennessee^s  Partner.     (In  Luck  of  Roaring  Camp.) 

The  Outcasts  of  Poker  Flat.     (In  Luck  of  Roaring  Camp.)     The 
Heathen  Chinee.     (Poem.) 
Jackson,  H.  H.:  Ramona. 

Sonnets  and  Lyrics. 
Mitchell,  D.  G.:  Reveries  of  a  Bachelor. 

Stockton,  F.  R.:  A  Story  of  Seven   Devils.     (In   Amos  Kilbright 
and  Others.) 

Rudder  Grange. 
Stowe,  H.  B.:  Uncle  Tom's  Cabin. 
Wallace,  Lew:  Ben-Hur.     A  Tale  of  the  Christ. 
Ward,   E.   S.   Phelps:  An  Old  Maid's  Paradise.     (In  Old  Maids 
and  Burglars  in  Paradise.) 

The  Gates  Ajar. 


Writers  of  the  Mid-  Century  and  After    235 

II.     For  Collateral  Reading 

Nicholson,    M.:  The  Hoosiers.     (In  National  Studies  in  American 

Letters.) 
Whitman,  W. :  Mississippi  Valley  Literature.     (In  Specimen  Days.) 

PROSE — NON-FICTION 

I.  Edward  Everett  (i 794-1865),  one  of  America's  great 
scholars,  orators,  and  statesmen,  was  a  graduate  of  Harvard 
and  president  of  the  college  from  1845  to  1849.  He  was 
successively  Governor  of  Massachusetts,  United  States  Sen« 
ator.  Secretary  of  State,  and  Ambassador  to  England.  He 
was  an  eloquent  public  speaker  and  is  perhaps  best  remembered 
as  an  orator. 

Washington  Abroad  and  at  Home 

(From  The  Character  of  Washington.     A  speech  delivered  February 

22,  1856) 

I  feel,  sir,  more  and  more,  as  I  advance  in  life,  and 
watch  with  mingled  confidence,  solicitude,  and  hope,  the 
development  of  the  momentous  drama  of  our  national 
existence,  seeking  to  penetrate  that  future  which  His  Ex- 
cellency has  so  eloquently  foreshadowed,  that  it  is  well 
worth  our  while — that  it  is  at  once  one  of  our  highest 
social  duties  and  important  privileges — to  celebrate  with 
ever-increasing  solemnity,  with  annually  augmented  pomp 
and  circumstance  of  festal  commemoration,  the  anniver- 
sary of,  the  nation's  birth,  were  it  only  as  affording  a  fit- , 
ting  occasion  to  bring  the  character  and  services  of  Wash- 
ington, with  ever  fresh  recognition,  to  the  public  attention, 
as  the  great  central  figure  of  that  unparalleled  group,  that 
** noble  army"  of  chieftains,  sages,  and  patriots,  by  whom 
the  Revolution  was  accomplished. 

This  is  the  occasion,  and  here  is  the  spot,  and  this  is  the 
day,  and  we  citizens  of  Boston  are  the  men,  if  any  in  the 
land,  to  throw  wide  open  the  portals  of  the  temple  of 
memory  and  fame,  and  there  gaze  with  the  eyes  of  a  rev- 
erent and  grateful  imagination  on  his  benignant  counte- 
nance and  majestic  form.     This  is  the  occasion  and  the 


236  American  Literature 

day;  for  who  needs  to  be  told  how  much  the  cause  of  inde- 
pendence owes  to  the  services  and  character  of  Washing- 
ton; to  the  purity  of  that  stainless  purpose,  to  the  firmness 
of  that  resolute  soul?  This  is  the  spot,  this  immortal 
hall,  from  which  as  from  an  altar  went  forth  the  burning 
coals  that  kindled  into  a  consuming  fire  at  Lexington  and 
Concord,  at  Bunker  Hill  and  Dorchester  Heights.  We 
citizens  of  Boston  are  the  men;  for  the  first  great  success 
of  Washington  in  the  Revolutionary  War  was  to  restore 
to  our  fathers  their  ancient  and  beloved  town.  This  is 
the  time,  the  accepted  time,  when  the  voice  of  the  Father 
of  his  Country  cries  aloud  to  us  from  the  sods  of  Mount 
Vernon,  and  calls  upon  us,  east  and  west,  north  and  south, 
as  the  brethren  of  one  great  household,  to  be  faithful  to 
the  dear-bought  inheritance  which  he  did  so  much  to 
secure  for  us. 

But  the  fame  of  Washington  is  not  confined  to  our  own 
country.  Bourdaloue,  in  his  eulogy  on  the  military  saint 
of  France,  exclaims,  ''The  other  saints  have  been  given  by 
the  Church  to  France,  but  France  in  return  has  given  St. 
Louis  to  the  church."  Born  into  the  family  of  nations  in 
these  latter  days,  receiving  from  foreign  countries  and 
inheriting  from  ancient  times  the  bright  and  instructive 
example  of  all  their  honored  sons,  it  is  the  glory  of  America, 
in  the  very  dawn  of  her  national  existence,  to  have  given 
back  to  the  world  many  names  of  which  the  luster  will 
never  fade;  and  especially  one  name  of  which  the  whole 
family  of  Christendom  is  wilHng  to  acknowledge  the  un- 
envied  pre-eminence;  a  name  of  which  neither  Greece  nor 
Rome,  nor  republican  Italy,  Switzerland,  nor  Holland, 
nor  constitutional  England  can  boast  the  rival.  ''A  char- 
acter of  virtues  so  happily  tempered  by  one  another"  (I 
use  the  language  of  Charles  James  Fox),  ''and  so  wholly 
unalloyed  by  any  vices,  is  hardly  to  be  found  on  the  pages 
of  history." 

It  is  delightful  to  witness  the  generous  recognition  of 
Washington's  merits,  even  in  countries  where,  from  po- 
litical reasons,  some  backwardness  in  that  respect  might 
have  been  anticipated.    Notwithstanding  his  leading  agency 


Writers  of  the  Mid-  Century  and  After    237 

in  wresting  a  colonial  empire  from  Great  Britain,  England 
was  not  slow  to  appreciate  the  grandeur  and  beauty 
of  his  character.  Mr.  Rufus  King,  our  minister  at  that 
time  to  the  Court  of  St.  James,  writing  to  General  Hamil- 
ton in  1797,  says: 

''No  one  who  has  not  been  in  England  can  have  a  just 
idea  of  the  admiration  expressed  among  all  parties  for 
General  Washington.  It  is  a  common  observation,  that 
he  is  not  only  the  most  illustrious,  but  the  most  meritori- 
ous character  which  has  yet  appeared." 

Nor  was  France  behind  England  in  her  admiration  of 
Washington.  Notwithstanding  the  uneasy  relations  of 
the  two  countries  at  the  time  of  his  decease,  when  the  news 
of  his  death  reached  Paris,  the  youthful  and  fortunate 
soldier  who  had  already  reached  the  summit  of  power  by 
paths  which  Washington  could  never  have  trod,  com- 
manded the  highest  honors  to  be  paid  to  his  memory. 
"Washington,"  he  immediately  exclaimed,  in  the  orders 
of  the  day,  ''is  dead!  This  great  man  fought  against 
tyranny;  he  consolidated  the  liberty  of  his  country.  His 
memory  will  be  ever  dear  to  the  French  people,  as  to  all 
freemen  in  both  hemispheres,  and  especially  to  the  soldiers 
of  France,  who  like  him  and  the  American  soldiers  are 
fighting  for  Hberty  and  equahty.  In  consequence,  the 
First  Consul  orders  that  for  ten  days  black  crape  shall  be 
suspended  from  all  the  standards  and  banners  of  the  re- 
public." By  order  of  Napoleon  a  solemn  funeral  service 
was  performed  in  the  "InvaHdes,"  in  the  presence  of  all 
that  wds  most  eminent  in  Paris.  "A  sorrowful  cry,"  said 
Fontanes,  the  orator  chosen  for  the  occasion,  "has  reached 
us  from  America,  which  he  liberated.  It  belongs  to 
France  to  yield  the  first  response  to  the  lamentation  which 
will  be  echoed  by  every  great  soul.  Tliese  august  arches 
have  been  well  chosen  for  the  apotheosis  of  a  hero." 

How  often  in  those  wild  scenes  of  her  revolution,  when 
the  best  blood  of  France  was  shed  by  the  remorseless  and 
ephemeral  tyrants  who  chased  each  other,  dagger  in  hand, 
across  that  dismal  stage  of  crime  and  woe,  during  the  reign 
of  terror,  how  often  did  the  thoughts  of  Lafayette  and  his 


238  American  Literature 

companions  in  arms,  who  had  fought  the  battles  of  con- 
stitutional liberty  in  America,  call  up  the  image  of  the 
pure,  the  just,  the  humane,  the  unambitious  Washington ! 
How  different  would  have  been  the  fate  of  France,  if  her 
victorious  chieftain,  when  he  had  reached  the  giddy  heights 
of  power,  had  imitated  the  great  example  which  he  caused 
to  be  eulogized !  He  might  have  saved  his  country  from 
being  crushed  by  the  leagued  hosts  of  Europe;  he  might 
have  prevented  the  names  of  Moscow  and  Waterloo  from 
being  written  in  letters  of  blood  on  the  pages  of  history; 
he  might  have  escaped  himself  the  sad  significance  of  those 
memorable  words  of  Fontanes,  on  the  occasion  to  which 
I  have  alluded,  when,  in  the  presence  of  Napoleon,  he  spoke 
of  Washington  as  a  man  who,  *'by  a  destiny  seldom  shared 
by  those  who  change  the  fate  of  empires,  died  in  peace  as 
a  private  citizen,  in  his  native  land,  where  he  had  held 
the  first  rank,  and  which  he  had  himself  made  free !" 

How  different  would  have  been  the  fate  of  Spain,  of 
Naples,  of  Greece,  of  Germany,  of  Mexico,  and  the  South 
American  Republics,  had  their  recent  revolutions  been  con- 
ducted by  men  like  Washington  and  his  patriotic  associates, 
whose  prudence,  patriotism,  probity,  and  disinterestedness 
conducted  our  Revolution  to  an  auspicious  and  honorable 
result ! 

But  it  is,  of  course,  at  home  that  we  must  look  for  an 
adequate  appreciation  of  our  Washington's  services  and 
worth.  He  is  the  friend  of  the  liberties  of  other  countries; 
he  is  the  father  of  his  own.  I  own,  Mr.  Mayor,  that  it 
has  been  to  me  a  source  of  inexpressible  satisfaction,  to 
find,  amidst  all  the  bitter  dissensions  of  the  day,  that  this 
one  grand  sentiment,  veneration  for  the  name  of  Washing- 
ton, is  buried — no,  planted — down  in  the  very  depths  of 
the  American  heart.  It  has  been  my  privilege  within  the 
last  two  years  to  hold  it  up  to  the  reverent  contemplation 
of  my  countrymen,  from  the  banks  of  the  Penobscot  to 
the  banks  of  the  Savannah,  from  New  York  to  St.  Louis, 
from  Chesapeake  Bay  to  Lake  Michigan;  and  the  same 
sentiments,  expressed  in  the  same  words,  have  everywhere 
touched  a  sympathetic  chord  in  the  American  heart. 


Writers  of  the  Mid-  Century  and  After     239 

To  that  central  attraction  I  have  been  delighted  to  find 
that  the  thoughts,  the  affections,  the  memories  of  the 
people,  in  whatever  part  of  the  country,  from  the  ocean 
to  the  prairies  of  the  West,  from  the  land  of  granite  and 
ice  to  the  land  of  the  palmetto  and  the  magnolia,  instinc- 
tively turn.  They  have  their  sectional  loves  and  hatreds, 
but  before  the  dear  name  of  Washington  they  are  all  ab- 
sorbed and  forgotten.  In  whatever  region  of  the  country, 
the  heart  of  patriotism  warms  to  him;  as  in  the  starry 
heavens,  with  the  circling  of  the  seasons,  the  pointers  go 
round  the  sphere,  but  their  direction  is  ever  toward  the 
pole.  They  may  point  from  the  east,  they  may  point  from 
the  west,  but  they  will  point  to  the  northern  star.  It  is 
not  the  brightest  luminary  in  the  heavens,  as  men  account 
brightness,  but  it  is  always  in  its  place.  The  meteor, 
kindled  into  momentary  blaze  from  the  rank  vapors  of  the 
lower  sky,  is  brighter.  The  comet  is  brighter  that  streams 
across  the  firmament, 

"  And  from  his  horrid  hair 
Shakes  pestilence  and  war." 

But  the  meteor  explodes;  the  comet  rushes  back  to  the 
depths  of  the  heavens;  while  the  load-star  shines  steady 
at  the  pole,  alike  in  summer  and  in  winter,  in  seed-time 
and  in  harvest,  at  the  equinox  and  the  solstice.  It  shone 
for  Columbus  at  the  discovery  of  America;  it  shone  for 
the  pioneers  of  settlement,  the  pilgrims  of  faith  and  hope 
at  Jamestown  and  Plymouth;  it  will  shine  for  the  mariner 
who  shall  enter  your  harbor  to-night;  it  will  shine  for  the 
navies  which  shall  bear  the  sleeping  thunders  of  your  power 
while  the  flag  of  the  Union  shall  brave  the  battle  and  the 
breeze.  So,  too,  the  character,  the  counsels,  the  example 
of  our  Washington,  of  which  you  bid  me  speak:  they 
guided  our  fathers  through  the  storms  of  the  Revolution; 
they  will  guide  us  through  the  doubts  and  difficulties  that 
beset  us;  they  will  guide  our  children  and  our  children's 
children  in  the  paths  of  prosperity  and  peace,  while  Amer- 
ica shall  hold  her  place  in  the  family  of  nations. 


240  American  Literature 

2.  Abraham  Lincoln  (i  809-1 865),  President  of  the  United 
States  from  1861  to  1865,  was  after  Washington  the  greatest  of 
all  America's  public  men.  Lincoln's  speeches  rank  as  classics 
in  our  literature  because  of  their  simple,  direct,  unadorned  style. 
Again  in  his  case  the  style  is  the  man — sincere,  unaffected, 
forceful.  Every  American  should  know  the  Gettysburg  Address 
by  heart. 

Address  at  the  Dedication  of  the   Gettysburg 
National  Cemetery,  November  19,  1863 

Fourscore  and  seven  years  ago  our  fathers  brought 
forth  on  this  continent  a  new  nation,  conceived  in  Hberty, 
and  dedicated  to  the  proposition  that  all  men  are  created 
equal. 

Now  we  are  engaged  in  a  great  civil  war,  testing  whether 
that  nation,  or  any  nation  so  conceived  and  so  dedicated, 
can  long  endure.  We  are  met  on  a  great  battle-field  of 
that  war.  We  have  come  to  dedicate  a  portion  of  that 
field  as  a  final  resting-place  for  those  who  here  gave  their 
lives  that  that  nation  might  live.  It  is  altogether  fitting 
and  proper  that  we  should  do  this. 

But,  in  a  larger  sense,  we  cannot  dedicate — we  cannot 
consecrate — we  cannot  hallow — this  ground.  The  brave 
men,  living  and  dead,  who  struggled  here,  have  consecrated 
it  far  above  our  poor  power  to  add  or  detract.  The  world 
will  little  note  nor  long  remember  what  we  say  here,  but 
it  can  never  forget  what  they  did  here.  It  is  for  us,  the 
living,  rather,  to  be  dedicated  here  to  the  unfinished  work 
which  they  who  fought  here  have  thus  far  so  nobly  ad- 
vanced. It  is  rather  for  us  to  be  here  dedicated  to  the  great 
task  remaining  before  us — that  from  these  honored  dead  we 
take  increased  devotion  to  that  cause  for  which  they  gave 
the  last  full  measure  of  devotion;  that  we  here  highly 
resolve  that  these  dead  shall  not  have  died  in  vain;  that 
this  nation,  under  God,  shall  have  a  new  birth  of  freedom; 
and  that  government  of  the  people,  by  the  people,  for  the 
people,  shall  not  perish  from  the  earth. 


Writers  of  the  Mid- Century  and  After     241 

Second  Inaugural  Address  (March  4,  1865) 

Fellow-countrymen :  At  this  second  appearing  to  take  the 
oath  of  the  presidential  office,  there  is  less  occasion  for  an 
extended  address  than  there  was  at  the  first.  Then  a 
statement,  somewhat  in  detail,  of  a  course  to  be  pursued, 
seemed  fitting  and  proper.  Now,  at  the  expiration  of 
four  years,  during  which  public  declarations  have  been  con- 
stantly called  forth  on  every  point  and  phase  of  the  great 
contest  which  still  absorbs  the  attention  and  engrosses  the 
energies  of  the  nation,  little  that  is  new  can  be  presented. 

On  the  occasion  corresponding  to  this,  four  years  ago, 
all  thoughts  were  anxiously  directed  to  an  impending  civil 
war.  All  dreaded  it — all  sought  to  avoid  it.  While  the 
inaugural  address  was  being  delivered  from  this  place, 
devoted  altogether  to  saving  the  Union  without  war, 
insurgent  agents  were  in  the  city  seeking  to  destroy  it 
without  war,  seeking  to  dissolve  the  Union  and  divide  the 
effects  by  negotiation.  Both  parties  deprecated  war;  but 
one  of  them  would  make  war  rather  than  let  the  nation 
survive;  and  the  other  would  accept  war  rather  than  let  it 
perish.     And  the  war  came. 

One-eighth  of  the  whole  population  were  colored  slaves, 
not  distributed  generally  over  the  Union,  but  localized 
in  the  Southern  part  of  it.  These  slaves  constituted  a 
peculiar  and  powerful  interest.  All  knew  that  this  interest 
was,  somehow,  the  cause  of  the  war.  To  strengthen,  per- 
petuate, and  extend  this  interest  was  the  object  for  which 
the  insurgents  would  rend  the  Union,  even  by  war;  while 
the  Government  claimed  no  right  to  do  more  than  to  re- 
strict the  territorial  enlargement  of  it. 

Neither  party  expected  for  the  war  the  magnitude  or 
the  duration  which  it  has  already  attained.  Neither  antic- 
ipated that  the  cause  of  the  conflict  might  cease  with,  or 
even  before,  the  conflict  itself  should  cease.  Each  looked 
for  an  easier  triumph,  and  a  result  less  fundamental  and 
astounding.  Both  read  the  same  Bible  and  pray  to  the 
same  God;  and  each  invokes  his  aid  against  the  other. 
It  may  seem  strange  that  any  men  should  dare  to  ask  a 


242  American  Literature 

just  God's  assistance  in  wringing  their  bread  from  the 
sweat  of  other  men's  faces;  but  let  us  judge  not,  that  we 
be  not  judged.  The  prayers  of  both  could  not  be  answered; 
that  of  neither  has  been  answered  fully. 

The  Almighty  has  His  own  purposes.  .  .  .  Fondly  do 
we  hope — fervently  do  we  pray — that  this  mighty  scourge 
of  war  may  speedily  pass  away.  Yet,  if  God  wills  that  it 
shall  continue  until  all  the  wealth  piled  by  the  bondman's 
two  hundred  and  fifty  years  of  unrequited  toil  shall  be 
sunk,  and  until  every  drop  of  blood  drawn  with  the  lash 
shall  be  paid  by  another  drawn  with  the  sword,  as  was  said 
three  thousand  years  ago,  so  still  it  must  be  said  "The 
judgments  of  the  Lord  are  true  and  righteous  altogether." 

With  malice  toward  none;  with  charity  for  all;  with 
firmness  in  the  right,  as  God  gives  us  to  see  the  right,  let 
us  strive  on  to  finish  the  work  we  are  in,  to  bind  up  the 
nation's  wounds,  to  care  for  him  who  shall  have  borne 
the  battle,  and  for  his  widow  and  his  orphan;  to  do  all 
which  may  achieve  and  cherish  a  just  and  lasting  peace 
among  ourselves,  and  with  all  nations. 

3.  Wendell  Phillips  (1811-1884)  was  a  great  antislavery 
orator.  Before  the  Civil  War  he  devoted  most  of  his  time  to 
the  cause  of  the  abolitionists.  His  best-known  address  is 
Toussaint  DOuverlure,  an  extract  from  which  follows. 

The  Greatness  of  Toussaint  L'Ouverture 

(From  Toussaint  L'Ouverture.     First  delivered  in  1861) 

If  I  were  to  tell  you  the  story  of  Napoleon,  I  should  take 
it  from  the  Hps  of  Frenchmen,  who  find  no  language  rich 
enough  to  paint  the  great  captain  of  the  nineteenth  cen- 
tury. Were  I  to  tell  you  the  story  of  Washington,  I  should 
take  it  from  your  hearts — you,  who  think  no  marble  white 
enough  on  which  to  carve  the  name  of  the  Father  of  his 
Country.  But  I  am  to  tell  you  the  story  of  a  negro,  Tous- 
saint L'Ouverture,  who  has  left  hardly  one  written  line. 
I  am  to  glean  it  from  the  reluctant  testimony  of  his  ene- 
mies, men  who  despised  him  because  he  was  a  negro  and  a 
slave,  and  hated  him  because  he  had  beaten  them  in  battle. 


Writers  of  the  Mid-  Century  and  After     243 

Cromwell  manufactured  his  own  army.  Napoleon,  at 
the  age  of  twenty-seven,  was  placed  at  the  head  of  the 
best  troops  Europe  ever  saw.  Cromwell  never  saw  an 
army  till  he  was  forty;  this  man  never  saw  a  soldier  till  he 
was  fifty.  Cromwell  manufactured  his  own  army — out 
of  what?  EngKshmen,  the  best  blood  in  Europe;  out  of 
the  middle  class  of  EngKshmen,  the  best  blood  of  the 
island.  And  with  it  he  conquered  what?  EngHshmen, 
their  equals.  This  man  manufactured  his  army  out  of 
what  ?  Out  of  what  you  call  the  despicable  race  of  negroes, 
debased,  demoralized  by  two  hundred  years  of  slavery, 
one  hundred  thousand  of  them  imported  into  the  island 
within  four  years,  unable  to  speak  a  dialect  intelligible 
even  to  each  other.  Yet  out  of  this  mixed,  and,  as  you  say, 
despicable  mass,  he  forged  a  thunderbolt  and  hurled  it  at 
what?  At  the  proudest  blood  in  Europe,  the  Spaniard, 
and  sent  him  home  conquered;  at  the  most  warlike  blood 
in  Europe,  the  French,  and  put  them  under  his  feet;  at  the 
pluckiest  blood  in  Europe,  the  EngHsh,  and  they  skulked 
home  to  Jamaica.  Now  if  Cromwell  was  a  general,  at 
least  this  man  was  a  soldier. 


Some  doubt  the  courage  of  the  negro.  Go  to  Haiti, 
and  stand  on  those  fifty  thousand  graves  of  the  best  soldiers 
France  ever  had,  and  ask  them  what  they  think  of  the 
negro's  sword. 

I  would  call  him  Napoleon,  but  Napoleon  made  his 
way  to  empire  over  broken  oaths  and  through  a  sea  of  blood. 
This  man  never  broke  his  word.  I  would  call  him  Crom- 
well, but  Cromwell  was  only  a  soldier,  and  the  state  he 
founded  went  down  with  him  into  his  grave.  I  would  call 
him  Washington,  but  the  great  Virginian  held  slaves. 
This  man  risked  his  empire  rather  than  permit  the  slave- 
trade  in  the  humblest  village  of  his  dominions. 

You  think  me  a  fanatic,  for  you  read  history,  not  with 
your  eyes,  but  with  your  prejudices.  But  fifty  years  hence, 
when  Truth  gets  a  hearing,  the  Muse  of  History  will  write 
Phocion  for  the  Greek,  Brutus  for  the  Roman,  Hampden 


244  American  Literature 

for  England,  Fayette  for  France,  choose  Washington  as 
the  bright  consummate  flower  of  our  earUer  civilization, 
then,  dipping  her  pen  in  the  sunhght,  will  write  in  the  clear 
blue,  above  them  all,  the  name  of  the  soldier,  the  statesman, 
the  martyr,  Toussaint  UOuverture. 

4.  John  Lothrop  Motley  (1814-1877)  was  one  of  our  great 
historians.  He  was  a  graduate  of  Harvard  and  afterward 
studied  in  Germany.  His  monumental  work  is  The  Rise  of  the 
Dutch  Republic,  an  extract  from  which  follows. 

Brussels  in  the  Sixteenth  Century 
(From  The  Rise  of  the  Dutch  Republic,  Volume  I,  Chapter  I) 

On  the  twenty-fifth  day  of  October,  1555,  the  estates 
of  the  Netherlands  were  assembled  in  the  great  hall  of  the 
palace  at  Brussels.  They  had  been  summoned  to  be  the 
witnesses  and  the  guarantees  of  the  abdication  which 
Charles  V  had  long  before  resolved  upon,  and  which  he  was 
that  day  to  execute.  .  .  . 

The  gay  capital  of  Brabant — of  that  province  which 
rejoiced  in  the  liberal  constitution  known  by  the  cheerful 
title  of  the  "joyful  entrance,'^  was  worthy  to  be  the  scene 
of  the  imposing  show.  Brussels  had  been  a  city  for  more 
than  five  centuries,  and,  at  that  day,  numbered  about  one 
hundred  thousand  inhabitants.  Its  walls,  six  miles  in  cir- 
cumference, were  already  two  hundred  years  old.  Unhke 
most  Netherland  cities,  l3ang  usually  upon  extensive  plains, 
it  was  built  along  the  sides  of  an  abrupt  promontory.  A 
wide  expanse  of  living  verdure,  cultivated  gardens,  shady 
groves,  fertile  corn-fields,  flowed  round  it  like  a  sea.  The 
foot  of  the  town  was  washed  by  the  little  river  Senne,  while 
the  irregular  but  picturesque  streets  rose  up  the  steep  sides 
of  the  hill  Hke  the  semicircles  and  stairways  of  an  amphi- 
theatre. Nearly  in  the  heart  of  the  place  rose  the  audacious 
and  exquisitely  embroidered  tower  of  the  town-house,  three 
hundred  and  sixty-six  feet  in  height,  a  miracle  of  needle- 
work in  stone,  rivalling  in  its  intricate  carving  the  cobweb 
tracery  of  that  lace  which  has  for  centuries  been  synonymous 


Writers  of  the  Mid- Century  and  After    245 

with  the  city,  and  rearing  itself  above  a  facade  of  profusely- 
decorated  and  brocaded  architecture.  The  crest  of  the  el- 
evation was  crowned  by  the  towers  of  the  old  ducal  palace  of 
Brabant,  with  its  extensive  and  thickly-wooded  park  on  the 
left,  and  by  the  stately  mansions  of  Orange,  Egmont,  Arem- 
berg,  Culemburg,  and  other  Flemish  .grandees,  on  the  right. 
The  great  forest  of  Soignies,  dotted  with  monasteries  and 
convents,  swarming  with  every  variety  of  game,  whither 
the  citizens  made  their  summer  pilgrimages,  and  where 
the  nobles  chased  the  wild  boar  and  the  stag,  extended  to 
within  a  quarter  of  a  mile  of  the  city  walls.  The  popula- 
tion, as  thrifty,  as  inteUigent,  as  prosperous  as  that  of  any 
city  in  Europe,  was  divided  into  fifty-two  guilds  of  arti- 
sans, among  which  the  most  important  were  the  armorers, 
whose  suits  of  mail  would  turn  a  musket-ball;  the  garden- 
ers, upon  whose  gentler  creations  incredible  sums  were 
annually  lavished;  and  the  tapes  try- workers,  whose  gor- 
geous fabrics  were  the  wonder  of  the  world.  Seven  prin- 
cipal churches,  of  which  the  most  striking  was  that  of  St: 
Gudule,  with  its  twin  towers,  its  charming  facade,  and  its 
magnificently  painted  windows,  adorned  the  upper  part 
of  the  city.  The  number  seven  was  a  magic  number  in 
Brussels,  and  was  supposed  at  that  epoch,  during  which 
astronomy  was  in  its  infancy  and  astrology  in  its  prime, 
to  denote  the  seven  planets  which  governed  all  things 
terrestrial  by  their  aspects  and  influences.  Seven  noble 
famines,  springing  from  seven  ancient  castles,  supplied 
the  stock  from  which  the  seven  senators  were  selected  who 
composed  the  upper  council  of  the  city.  There  were  seven 
great  squares,  seven  city  gates,  and  upon  the  occasion  of 
the  present  ceremony,  it  was  observed  by  the  lovers  of 
wonderful  coincidences,  that  seven  crowned  heads  would 
be  congregated  under  a  single  roof  in  the  liberty-loving 
city. 

The  palace  where  the  states-general  were  upon  this  oc- 
casion convened,  had  been  the  residence"  of  the  Dukes  of 
Brabant  since  the  days  of  John  the  Second,  who  had  built 
it  about  the  year  1300.  It  was  a  spacious  and  convenient 
building,  but  not  distinguished  for  the  beauty  of  its  archi- 


246  American  Literature 

tecture.  In  front  was  a  large  open  square,  enclosed  by 
an  iron  railing;  in  the  rear  an  extensive  and  beautiful 
park,  filled  with  forest  trees,  and  containing  gardens 
and  labyrinths,  fish-ponds  and  game  preserves,  fountains 
and  promenades,  race-courses  and  archery  grounds.  The 
main  entrance  to  this  edifice  opened  upon  a  spacious  hall, 
connected  with  a  beautiful  and  symmetrical  chapel.  The 
hall  was  celebrated  for  its  size,  harmonious  proportions, 
and  the  richness  of  its  decorations.  It  was  the  place 
where  the  chapters  of  the  famous  order  of  the  Golden 
Fleece  were  held.  Its  walls  were  hung  with  a  magnificent 
tapestry  of  Arras,  representing  the  Ufe  and  achievements 
of  Gideon,  the  Midianite,  and  giving  particular  prominence 
to  the  miracle  of  the  "fleece  of  wool,"  vouchsafed  to  that 
renowned  champion,  the  great  patron  of  the  Knights  of 
the  Fleece.  On  the  present  occasion  there  were  various 
additional  embellishments  of  flowers  and  votive  garlands. 
At  the  western  end  a  spacious  platform  or  stage,  with  six 
or  seven  steps,  had  been  constructed,  below  which  was  a 
range  of  benches  for  the  deputies  of  the  seventeen  provinces. 
Upon  the  stage  itself  there  were  rows  of  seats,  covered  with 
tapestry,  upon  the  right  hand  and  upon  the  left.  These 
were  respectively  to  accommodate  the  knights  of  the  order 
and  the  guests  of  high  distinction.  In  the  rear  of  these 
were  other  benches,  for  the  members  of  the  three  great 
councils.  In  the  centre  of  the  stage  was  a  splendid  canopy, 
decorated  with  the  arms  of  Burgundy,  beneath  which  were 
placed  three  gilded  arm-chairs.  All  the  seats  upon  the 
platform  were  vacant,  but  the  benches  below,  assigned  to 
the  deputies  of  the  provinces,  were  already  filled.  Numer- 
ous representatives  from  all  the  states  but  two — Gelder- 
land  and  Overyssel — had  already  taken  their  places.  Grave 
magistrates,  in  chain  and  gown,  and  executive  officers  in 
the  splendid  civic  uniforms  for  which  the  Netherlands 
were  celebrated,  already  filled  every  seat  within  the  space 
allotted.  The  remainder  of  the  hall  was  crowded  with 
the  more  favored  portion  of  the  multitude  which  had  been 
fortunate  enough  to  procure  admission  to  the  exhibition. 
The   archers   and   hallebardiers   of   the   body-guard   kept 


Writers  of  the  Mid-  Century  and  After    247 

watch  at  all  the  doors.  The  theatre  was  filled — the  au- 
dience was  eager  with  expectation — the  actors  were  yet  to 
arrive.  As  the  clock  struck  three  the  hero  of  the  scene 
appeared.  Caesar,  as  he  was  always  designated  in  the 
classic  language  of  the  day,  entered,  leaning  on  the  shoul- 
der of  William  of  Orange.  They  came  from  the  chapel, 
and  were  immediately  followed  by  Phillip  the  Second  and 
Queen  Mary  of  Hungary.  The  Archduke  MaximiUan, 
the  Duke  of  Savoy,  and  other  great  personages  came  after- 
wards, accompanied  by  a  glittering  throng  of  warriors, 
councillors,  governors,  and  Knights  of  the  Fleece. 

5.  Henry  Ward  Beecher  (1813-1887)  was  a  famous  preacher 
and  an  eloquent  public  speaker.  He  lectured  much  on  the 
cause  of  the  slave  in  England  as  well  as  in  America.  The  fol- 
lowing extract  is  typical. 

Difficulties  of  Union 
(From  the  speech  delivered  in  Edinburgh,  October  14,  1863) 

It  shall  be  my  business  to  speak,  for  the  most  part,  of 
what  I  know,  and  so  to  speak  that  you  shall  be  in  no  doubt 
whatever  of  my  convictions. 

America  has  been  going  through  an  extraordinary  revo- 
lution, unconsciously  and  interiorly,  which  began  when 
her  present  national  form  was  assumed,  which  is  now  devel- 
oping itself,  but  which  existed  and  was  in  progress  just  as 
much  before  as  now.  The  earlier  problem  was  how  to 
establish  an  absolute  independence  in  states  from  all 
external  control.  Next,  how,  out  of  independent  states 
to  form  a  nation,  yet  without  destroying  local  sovereignty. 
The  period  of  germination  and  growth  of  the  Union  of  the 
separate  colonies  is  threefold.  The  first  colonies  that 
planted  the  American  shores  were  separate,  and  jealous 
of  their  separateness.  Sent  from  the  mother  country  with 
a  strong  hatred  of  oppression,  they  went  with  an  intense 
individualism,  and  sought  to  set  up,  each  party,  its  Httle 
colony,  where  they  would  be  free  to  follow  their  convic- 
tions and  the  dictates  of  conscience.     And  nothing  is  more 


248  American  Literature 

characteristic  of  the  earlier  politics  of  the  colonists  than 
their  jealous  isolation,  for  fear  that  even  contact  would 
contaminate.  Two  or  three  efforts  were  made  within  the 
first  twenty  or  twenty-five  years  of  their  existence  to  bring 
them  together  in  union.  Delegates  met  and  parted,  met 
again  and  parted.  Indian  wars  drove  them  together.  It 
became,  by  external  dangers,  necessary  that  there  should 
be  a  union  of  those  early  colonies,  but  there  was  a  fear  that 
in  going  into  union  they  would  lose  something  of  the  sover- 
eignty that  belonged  to  them  as  colonial  states.  The  first 
real  union  that  took  place  was  that  of  1643,  between  the 
colonists  of  what  is  now  New  England.  It  was  not  till 
1777,  a  year  and  a  half  after  the  Declaration  of  Indepen- 
dence, and  while  the  colonies  were  at  full  war  with  the 
mother  country,  that  what  are  called  the  Articles  of  Federa- 
tion were  adopted.  But  about  ten  years  after  these  ar- 
ticles were  framed  they  were  found  to  be  utterly  inadequate 
for  the  exigencies  of  the  times;  and  in  1787  the  present 
Constitution  of  the  United  States  was  adopted  by  conven- 
tion, and,  at  different  dates  thereafter,  ratified  by  the  thir- 
teen states  that  first  constituted  the  present  Union. 

Now  during  all  this  period  there  is  one  thing  to  be  re- 
marked, and  that  is,  the  jealousy  of  state  independence. 
The  states  were  feeUng  their  way  toward  nationahty;  and 
the  rule  and  measure  of  the  wisdom  of  every  step  was,  how 
to  maintain  individuality  with  nationality.  That  was 
their  problem.  How  can  there  be  absolute  independence 
in  local  government  with  perfect  nationality  ?  Slavery  was 
only  incidental  during  all  this  long  period;  but  in  reading 
from  contemporaneous  documents  and  debates  that  took 
place  in  conventions  both  for  confederation  and  for  final 
union,  it  is  remarkable  that  the  difficulties  which  arose 
were  difficulties  of  representation,  difficulties  of  taxation, 
difficulties  of  tariff  and  revenue;  and,  so  far  as  we  can  find, 
neither  North  nor  South  anticipated  in  the  future  any  of 
those  dangers  which  have  overspread  the  continent  from 
the  black  cloud  of  slavery.  The  dangers  they  most  feared, 
they  have  suffered  least  from;  the  dangers  they  have  suf- 
fered from,  they  did  not  at  all  anticipate,  or  but  little. 


Writers  of  the  Mid-  Century  and  After    249 

But  the  Union  was  formed.  The  Constitution,  defining 
the  national  power  conferred  by  the  states  on  the  federal 
government,  was  adopted.  Thenceforward,  for  fifty  years 
and  more,  the  country  developed  itself  in  wealth  and 
political  power,  until,  from  a  condition  of  feeble  states  ex- 
hausted by  war,  it  rose  to  the  dignity  of  a  first-class  nation. 
We  now  turn  our  attention  to  the  gradual  and  uncon- 
scious development  within  this  American  nation  of  two 
systems  of  policy,  antagonistic  and  irreconcilable.  Let  us 
look  at  the  South  first.  She  was  undergoing  unconscious 
transmutation.  She  did  not  know  it.  She  did  not  know 
what  ailed  her.  She  felt  ill,  put  her  hand  on  her  heart 
sometimes;  on  her  head  sometimes;  but  had  no  doctor 
to  tell  her  what  it  was,  until  too  late;  and  when  told  she 
would  not  believe.  For  it  is  a  fact  that  when  the  colonies 
combined  in  their  final  union,  slavery  was  waning  not  only 
in  the  Middle  and  Northern  states  but  also  in  the  South 
itself.  When  therefore  they  went  into  this  union,  slavery 
was  perishing,  partly  by  cHmate  in  the  North,  and  still 
more  by  the  convictions  of  the  people,  and  by  the  unpro- 
ductive character  of  farm  slavery.  The  first  period  of  the 
South  was  the  wane  and  weakness  of  slavery.  The  second 
period  is  the  increase  of  slavery,  and  its  apologetic  de- 
fense; for  with  the  invention  of  the  cotton  gin  an  extraor- 
dinary demand  for  cotton  sprang  up.  Slave  labor  began  to 
be  more  and  more  in  demand,  and  the  price  of  slaves  rose. 
Then  came  the  next  period,  one  of  revolution  of  opinion 
as  to  the  inferior  races  of  the  South,  a  total  and  entire 
change  in  the  doctrines  of  the  South  on  the  question  of 
human  rights  and  human  nature.  It  dates  from  Mr. 
Calhoun.  From  the  hour  that  Mr.  Calhoun  began  to 
teach,  there  commenced  a  silent  process  of  moral  deteriora- 
tion. I  call  it  a  retrogression  in  morals — an  apostasy. 
Men  no  longer  apologized  for  slavery;  they  learned  to 
defend  it,  to  teach  that  it  was  the  normal  condition  of  an 
inferior  race;  that  the  seeds  and  history  of  it  were  in  the 
Word  of  God;  that  the  only  condition  in  which  a  republic 
can  be  prosperous  is  where  an  aristocracy  owns  the  labor 
of  the  community.     That  was  the  doctrine  of  the  South, 


250  American  Literature 

and  with  that  doctrine  there  began  to  be  ambitious  designs 
not  only  for  the  maintenance  but  the  propagation  of 
slavery.  This  era  of  propagation  and  aggression  con- 
stitutes the  fourth  and  last  period  of  the  revolution  of  the 
South.  They  had  passed  through  a  whole  cycle  of  changes. 
These  changes  followed  certain  great  laws.  No  sooner  was 
the  new  philosophy  set  on  foot  than  the  South  recognized 
its  legitimacy  and  accepted  it  with  all  its  inferences  and 
inevitable  tendencies.  They  gave  up  wavering  and  mis- 
givings, adopted  the  institution — praised  it,  loved  it,  de- 
fended it,  sought  to  maintain  it,  burned  to  spread  it. 
During  the  last  fifteen  years  I  believe  you  cannot  find  a 
voice,  printed  or  uttered,  in  the  cotton  states  of  the  South, 
which  deplored  slavery.  All  believed  in  and  praised  it, 
and  found  authority  for  it  in  God's  Word.  PoHticians 
admired  it,  merchants  appreciated  it,  the  whole  South 
sang  paeans  to  the  new-found  truth,  that  man  was  born  to 
be  owned  by  man.  This  change  of  doctrine  made  it  cer- 
tain that  the  South  would  be  annoyed  and  irritated  by  a 
Constitution  which,  with  all  its  faults,  still  carried  the  God- 
given  principle  of  human  rights,  which  were  not  to  be  taken 
by  man  except  in  punishment  for  crime.  That  Constitu- 
tion, and  the  policy  which  went  with  it  at  first,  began  to 
gnaw  at,  and  irritate,  and  fret  the  South,  after  they  had 
adopted  slavery  as  a  doctrine. 

.The  great  cause  of  the  conflict — the  center  of  necessity, 
round  which  the  cannons  roar  and  the  bayonets  gleam — is 
the  preservation  of  slavery.  Beyond  slavery  there  is  no 
difference  between  North  and  South.  Their  interests  are 
identical,  with  the  exception  of  work.  The  North  is  for 
free  work — the  South  is  for  slave  work;  and  the  whole  war 
in  the  South,  though  it  is  for  independence,  is,  nevertheless, 
expressly  in  order  to  have  slavery  more  firmly  estabhshed 
by  that  independence.  On  the  other  hand,  the  whole  policy 
of  the  North  as  well  as  the  whole  work  of  the  North,  re- 
joicing at  length  to  be  set  free  from  antagonism,  bribes, 
and  intimidations,  is  for  liberty — liberty  for  every  man  in 
the  world. 

There  never  was  so  united  a  purpose  as  there  is  to-day 


Writers  of  the  Mid- Century  and  After     251 

to  crush  the  rebelHon.  We  have  had  nearly  three  years 
of  turmoil  and  disturbance,  which  not  only  has  not  taken 
away  that  determination,  but  has  increased  it.  The  loss 
of  our  sons  in  battle  has  been  grievous,  but  we  accept  it 
as  God's  will,  and  we  are  determined  that  every  martyred 
son  shall  have  a  representative  in  one  hundred  liberated 
slaves. 

6.  Bayard  Taylor  (182 5-1878)  was  a  native  of  Pennsylvania. 
He  travelled  extensively  in  Europe,  Asia,  and  Africa  and 
wrote  several  volumes  descriptive  of  his  travels.  At  the  time 
of  his  death  he  was  Minister  to  Germany.  He  was  a  poet  as 
well  as  a  prose-writer  and  achieved  fame  as  a  translator  of 
Goethe's  Faust. 

A  Glimpse  of  Mendelssohn 

(From  Views  A-Foot,  Chapter  XVI) 

Mendelssohn,  one  of  the  greatest  living  composers,  has 
been  spending  the  winter  here,  and  I  have  been  fortunate 
enough  to  see  him  twice.  One  sunny  day,  three  weeks 
ago,  when  all  the  population  of  Frankfort  turned  out  upon 
the  budding  promenades  and  the  broad  quays  along  the 
Main,  to  enjoy  the  first  spring  weather,  I  went  on  my 
usual  afternoon  stroll,  with  my  friend  Willis,  whose  glow- 
ing talk  concerning  his  art  is  quite  as  refreshing  to  me  after 
the  day's  study  in  the  gloomy  Markt-platz,  as  are  the 
blue  hills  of  Spessart,  which  we  see  from  the  bridge  over 
the  river.  As  we  were  threading  the  crowd  of  boatmen, 
Tyrolese,  Suabians,  and  Bohemians,  on  the  quay,  my  eye 
was  caught  by  a  man  who  came  towards  us,  and  whose 
face  and  air  were  in  such  striking  contrast  to  those  about 
him,  that  my  whole  attention  was  at  once  fixed  upon  him. 
He  was  simply  and  rather  negligently  dressed  in  dark 
cloth,  with  a  cravat  tied  loosely  about  his  neck.  His 
beard  had  evidently  not  been  touched  for  two  or  three 
days,  and  his  black  hair  was  long  and  frowzed  by  the 
wind.  His  eyes,  which  were  large,  dark,  and  kindhng, 
were  directed  forward  and  Hfted  in  the  abstraction  of  some 


£52  American  Literature 

absorbing  thought,  and  as  he  passed,  I  heard  him  singing 
to  himself  in  a  voice  deep  but  not  loud,  and  yet  with  a  far 
different  tone  from  that  of  one  who  hums  a  careless  air  as 
he  walks.  But  a  few  notes  caught  my  ear,  yet  I  remember 
their  sound,  elevated  and  with  that  scarcely  perceptible 
vibration  which  betrays  a  feeling  below  the  soul's  surface, 
as  distinctly  now  as  at  the  time.  Willis  grasped  my  arm 
quickly,  and  said  in  a  low  voice,  ''Mendelssohn!"  I 
turned  hastily,  and  looked  after  him  as  he  went  down  the 
quay,  apparently  but  half  conscious  of  the  stirring  scenes 
around  him.  I  could  easily  imagine  how  the  balmy,  indo- 
lent sensation  in  the  air,  so  Hke  a  soothing  and  tranquil- 
lizing strain  of  music,  should  have  led  him  into  the  serene 
and  majestic  realm  of  his  own  creations. 

It  was  something  to  have  seen  a  man  of  genius  thus 
alone  and  in  communion  with  his  inspired  thoughts,  and 
I  could  not  repress  a  feeling  of  pleasure  at  the  idea  of  having 
unconsciously  acknowledged  his  character  before  I  knew 
his  name.  After  this  passing  ghmpse,  this  flash  of  him, 
however,  came  the  natural  desire  to  see  his  features  in 
repose,  and  obtain  some  impression  of  his  personality. 
An  opportunity  soon  occurred.  The  performance  of  his 
*'Walpurgisnacht,"  by  the  Caecihen-Verein,  a  day  or  two 
thereafter,  increased  the  enthusiasm  I  had  before  felt  for 
his  works,  and  full  of  the  recollection  of  its  subhme  Druid 
choruses,  I  wrote  a  few  lines  to  him,  expressive  of  the  de- 
light they  had  given  me,  and  of  my  wi.sh  to  possess  his 
name  in  autograph,  that  I  might  take  to  America  some 
token  connected  with  their  remembrance.  The  next  day 
I  received  a  very  kind  note  in  reply,  enclosing  a  man- 
uscript score  of  a  chorus  from  the  ''Walpurgisnacht." 

Summoning  up  my  courage  the  next  morning,  I  decided 
on  calling  upon  him  in  person,  feeling  certain  that  he 
would  understand  the  motive  which  prompted  me  to  take 
such  a  liberty.  I  had  no  difficulty  in  finding  his  residence 
in  the  Bockenheimer  Gasse  in  the  western  part  of  the  city. 
The  servant  ushered  me  into  a  handsomely  furnished  room, 
with  a  carpet,  an  unusual  thing  in  German  houses;  a 
grand  piano  occupied  one  side  of  the  apartment.     These 


Writers  of  the  Mid-  Century  and  After     253 

struck  my  eye  on  entering,  but  my  observation  was  cut 
short  by  the  appearance  of  Mendelssohn.  A  few  words 
of  introduction  served  to  remove  any  embarrassment  I 
might  have  felt  on  account  of  my  unceremonious  call,  and 
I  was  soon  put  entirely  at  ease  by  his  frank  and  friendly 
manner.  As  he  sat  opposite  to  me,  beside  a  small  table, 
covered  with  articles  of  vertil,  I  was  much  struck  with  the 
high  intellectual  beauty  of  his  countenance.  His  fore- 
head is  white,  unwrinkled,  and  expanding  above,  in  the 
region  of  the  ideal  faculties.  His  eyes  are  large,  very  dark, 
and  lambent  with  a  light  that  seemed  to  come  through 
them — Hke  the  phosphorescent  gleam  on  the  ocean  at  mid- 
night. I  have  observed  this  pecuHar  character  of  the  eye 
only  in  men  of  the  highest  genius.  None  of  the  engrav- 
ings of  Mendelssohn  which  have  yet  been  made  give  any 
idea  of  the  kindling  effect  which  is  thus  given  to  his  face. 
His  nose  is  slightly  prominent,  and  the  traces  of  his  Jewish 
blood  are  seen  in  this,  as  well  as  the  thin  but  delicate  curve 
of  the  upper  lip,  and  the  high  cheek-bones.  Yet  it  is  the 
Jewish  face  softened  and  spiritualized,  retaining  none  of 
its  coarser  characteristics.  The  faces  of  Jewish  youth 
are  of  a  rare  and  remarkable  beauty,  but  this  is  scarcely 
ever  retained  beyond  the  first  period  of  manhood.  In 
Mendelssohn,  the  perpetual  youth  of  spirit,  which  is  the 
■gift  of  genius  alone,  seems  to  have  kept  his  features  moulded 
to  its  expression,  while  the  approach  of  maturer  years  but 
heightens  and  strengthens  its  character. 

He  spoke  of  German  music,  and  told  me  I  should  hear 
it  best  performed  in  Vienna  and  BerHn.  Some  remarks 
on  America  led  him  to  speak  of  the  proposed  Musical  Festi- 
val in  New  York.  He  has  received  a  letter  inviting  him 
to  assist  in  it,  and  said  he  would  gladly  attend  it,  but  his 
duty  to  his  family  will  not  permit  of  his  leaving.  He  ap- 
peared to  be  much  gratified  by  the  invitation,  not  only 
for  the  personal  appreciation  which  it  implied,  but  as  a 
cheering  sign  of  progress  in  the  musical  art.  Mr.  Willis, 
who  met  with  Mendelssohn  last  summer,  at  the  baths  of 
Kronthal,  said  that  he  expressed  much  curiosity  respecting 
our  native  negro  melodies — which,  after  all,  form  the  only 


254  American  Literature 

peculiarly  national  music  we  possess — and  that  he  con- 
siders some  of  them  exceedingly  beautiful  and  original. 

I  did  not  feel  at  liberty  to  intrude  long  upon  the  morning 
hours  of  a  composer,  and  took  my  leave  after  a  short  inter- 
view. Mendelssohn,  at  parting,  expressed  his  warm  in- 
terest in  our  country's  progress,  especially  in  the  refined 
arts,  and  gave  me  a  kind  invitation  to  call  upon  him  in 
whatever  German  city  I  should  find  him. 

7.  George  William  Curtis  (1824-1892)  before  the  Civil  War 
was  an  eloquent  defender  of  the  Union  cause.  He  was  con- 
nected for  almost  fifty  years  with  Harper^ s  Magazine  as  editor 
of  the  Easy  Chair.  His  style  is  graceful  and  conversational, 
reminiscent  at  times  of  Charles  Lamb  and  again  of  Addison. 

Mr.  Potiphar's  New  House 

(From  "A  Meditation  by  Paul  Potiphar,  Esq.,"  in  The  Potiphar 

Papers) 

Well,  my  new  house  is  finished — and  so  am  I.  I  hope 
Mrs.  Potiphar  is  satisfied.  Everybody  agrees  that  it  is 
** palatial."  The  daily  papers  have  had  columns  of  de- 
scription, and  I  am,  evidently,  according  to  their  authority, 
''munificent,"  "tasteful,"  ''enterprising,"  and  "patriotic." 

Amen!  but  what  business  have  I  with  palatial  resi- 
dences ?  What  more  can  I  possibly  want,  than  a  spacious, 
comfortable  house?  Do  I  want  buhl  escritoires?  Do  I 
want  or  molu  things?  Do  I  know  anything  about  pic- 
tures and  statues?  In  the  name  of  heaven,  do  I  want 
rOse-pink  bed  curtains  to  give  my  grizzly  old  phiz  a  del- 
icate "auroral  hue,"  as  Cream  Cheese  says  of  Mrs.  P.*s 
complexion!  Because  I  have  made  fifty  thousand  this  last 
year  in  Timbuctoo  bonds  must  I  convert  it  all  into  a 
house,  so  large  that  it  will  not  hold  me  comfortably — so 
splendid  that  I  might  as  well  live  in  a  porcelain  vase,  for 
the  trouble  of  taking  care  of  it — so  prodigiously  "palatial" 
that  I  have  to  skulk  into  my  private  room,  put  on  my  slip- 
pers, close  the  door,  shut  myself  up  with  myself,  and 
wonder  why  I  married  Mrs.  Potiphar? 


Writers  of  the  Mid-  Century  and  After    ^55 

Why  does  a  man  build  a  house?  To  live  in,  I  suppose 
— to  have  a  home.  But  is  a  fine  house  a  home  ?  I  mean, 
is  a  *' palatial  residence,"  with  Mrs.  Potiphar  at  the  head 
of  it,  the  ''home"  of  which  we  all  dream  more  or  less,  and 
for  which  we  ardently  long  as  we  grow  older?  A  house, 
I  take  it,  is  a  retreat  to  which  a  man  hurries  from  business, 
and  in  which  he  is  compensated  by  the  tenderness  and 
thoughtful  regard  of  a  woman,  and  the  play  of  his  children, 
for  the  rough  rubs  with  men.  I  know  it  is  a  silly  view  of 
the  case,  but  I'm  getting  old  and  can't  help  it. 

''You  men  are  intolerable.  .  .  .  Men  are  tyrants,  Mr. 
Potiphar.  They  are  ogres  who  entice  us  poor  girls  into 
their  castles,  and  then  eat  up  our  happiness,  and  scold  us 
while  they  eat." 

Well,  I  suppose  it  is  so.  I  suppose  I  am  an  ogre  and 
enticed  Polly  into  my  castle.  But  she  didn't  find  it  large 
enough,  and  teased  me  to  build  another. 

"How  about  the  library?"  said  she  one  day. 

"What  library?"  inquired  I. 

"Why,  our  library,  of  course." 

"I  haven't  any." 

"Do  you  mean  to  have  such  a  house  as  this  without  a 
Hbrary?" 

"Why,"  said  I  plaintively,  "I  don't  read  books — I  never 
did,  and  I  never  shall;  and  I  don't  care  anything  about 
them.     Why  should  I  have  a  library  ?  " 

"Why,  because  it's  part  of  a  house  Hke  this." 

"Mrs.  P.,  are  you  fond  of  books?" 

"No,  not  particularly.  But  one  must  have  some  regard 
to  appearances.  Suppose  we  are  Hottentots,  you  don't 
want  us  to  look  so,  do  you?" 

I  thought  that  it  was  quite  as  barbarous  to  imprison  a 
lot  of  books  that  we  should  never  open,  and  that  would 
stand  in  gilt  upon  the  shelves,  silently  laughing  us  to 
scorn,  as  not  to  have  them  if  we  didn't  want  them.  I 
proposed  a  compromise. 


^56  American  Literature 

"Is  it  the  looks  of  the  thing,  Mrs.  P.?"  said  I. 

"That's  all,"  she  answered. 

"Oh !  well,  ni  arrange  it." 

So  I  had  my  shelves  built,  and  my  old  friends  Matthews 
and  Rider  furnish  me  with  complete  sets  of  handsome  gilt 
covers  to  all  the  books  that  no  gentleman's  library  should 
be  without,  which  I  arranged,  carefully,  upon  the  shelves, 
and  had  the  best-looking  library  in  town.  I  locked  'em 
in,  and  the  key  is  always  lost  when  anybody  wants  to  take 
down  a  book.  However,  it  was  a  good  investment  in 
leather,  for  it  brings  me  in  the  reputation  of  a  reading  man 
and  a  patron  of  literature. 


O !  dear  me,  I  wonder  if  this  is  the  "home  sweet  home" 
business  the  girls  used  to  sing  about !  Music  does  certainly 
alter  cases.  I  can't  quite  get  used  to  it.  Last  week  I  was 
one  morning  in  the  basement  breakfast-room,  and  I  heard 
an  extra  cried.  I  ran  out  of  the  area  door — dear  me ! — 
before  I  thought  what  I  was  about;  I  emerged  bareheaded 
from  under  the  steps,  and  ran  a  little  way  after,  the  boy. 
I  know  it  wasn't  proper.  I  am  sorry,  very  sorry.  I  am 
afraid  Mrs.  Croesus  saw  me;  I  know  Mrs.  Gnu  told  it  all 
about  that  morning:  and  Mrs.  Settum  Downe  called 
directly  upon  Mrs.  Potiphar,  to  know  if  it  were  really  true 
that  I  had  lost  my  wits,  as  everybody  was  saying.  I 
don't  know  what  Mrs.  P.  answered.  I  am  sorry  to  have 
compromised  her  so.  I  went  immediately  and  ordered  a 
pray-do  of  the  blackest  walnut.  My  resignation  is  very 
gradual.  Kurz  Pacha  says  they  put  on  gravestones  in 
Sennaar  three  Latin  words — do  you  know  Latin?  if  you 
don't,  come  and  borrow  some  of  my  books.  The  words 
are:  or  a  pro  me! 

8.  Francis  Parkman  (1823-1893)  was  a  great  historian  and 
a  master  of  English.  His  theme  was  America — the  story  of 
the  pioneer  in  the  West,  of  the  conflicts  of  the  settler  and  the 
Indian.  He  personally  experienced  the  life  about  which  he 
wrote,  going  West  soon  after  graduating  from  Harvard  and 


Writers  of  the  Mid- Century  and  AJier     257 

living  with  the  Indians.     The  following  extract  illustrates  the 
sincerity  and  soundness  of  his  style. 

The  Death  of  Pontiac 
(From  The  Conspiracy  of  Pontiac,  Chapter  XXXI) 

He  who,  at  the  present  day,  crosses  from  the  city  of  St. 
Louis  to  the  opposite  shore  of  the  Mississippi,  and  passes 
southward  through  a  forest  festooned  with  grape-vines, 
and  fragrant  with  the  scent  of  flowers,  will  soon  emerge 
upon  the  ancient  hamlet  of  Cahokia.  To  one  fresh  from 
the  busy  suburbs  of  the  American  city,  the  small  French 
houses,  scattered  in  picturesque  disorder,  the  light-hearted, 
thriftless  look  of  their  inmates,  and  the  woods  which  form 
the  background  of  the  picture,  seem  like  the  remnants 
of  an  earlier  and  simpler  world.  Strange  changes  have 
passed  around  that  spot.  Forests  have  fallen,  cities  have 
sprung  up,  and  the  lonely  wilderness  is  thronged  with 
human  life.  Nature  herself  has  taken  part  in  the  general 
transformation;  and  the  Mississippi  has  made  a  fearful 
inroad,  robbing  from  the  luckless  Creoles  a  mile  of  rich 
meadow  and  woodland.  Yet,  in  the  midst  of  all,  this 
relic  of  the  lost  empire  of  France  has  preserved  its  essen- 
tial features  through  the  lapse  of  a  century,  and  offers  at 
this  day  an  aspect  not  widely  different  from  that  which 
met  the  eye  of  Pontiac,  when  he  and  his  chiefs  landed  on 
its  shore. 

The  place  was  full  of  Illinois  Indians;  such  a  scene  as 
in  our  own  time  may  often  be  met  with  in  some  squalid 
settlement  of  the  border,  where  the  vagabond  guests, 
bedizened  with  dirty  finery,  tie  their  small  horses  in  rows 
along  the  fences,  and  stroll  idly  among  the  houses,  or 
lounge  about  the  dramshops.  A  chief  so  renowned  as 
Pontiac  could  not  remain  long  among  the  friendly  Creoles 
of  Cahokia  without  being  summoned  to  a  feast;  and  at 
such  primitive  entertainment  the  whiskey-bottle  would  not 
fail  to  play  its  part.  This  was  in  truth  the  case.  Pontiac 
drank  deeply,  and,  when  the  carousal  was  over,  strode 
down  the  village  street  to  the  adjacent  woods,  where  he  was 


258  American  Literature 

heard  to  sing  the  medicine  songs,  in  whose  magic  power 
he  trusted  as  the  warrant  of  success  in  all  his  undertakings. 

An  EngUsh  trader,  named  WilHamson,  was  then  in  the 
village.  He  had  looked  on  the  movements  of  Pontiac 
with  a  jealousy  probably  not  diminished  by  the  visit  of 
the  chief  to  the  French  at  St.  Louis;  and  he  now  resolved 
not  to  lose  so  favorable  an  opportunity  to  despatch  him. 
With  this  view,  he  gained  the  ear  of  a  strolling  Indian, 
belonging  to  the  Kaskaskia  tribe  of  the  lUinois,  bribed  him 
with  a  barrel  of  hquor,  and  promised  him  a  farther  reward 
if  he  would  kill  the  chief.  The  bargain  was  quickly  made. 
When  Pontiac  entered  the  forest,  the  assassin  stole  close 
upon  his  track;  and,  watching  his  moment,  gUded  behind 
him,  and  buried  a  tomahawk  in  his  brain. 

The  dead  body  was  soon  discovered,  and  startled  cries 
and  wild  bowlings  announced  the  event.  The  word  was 
caught  up  from  mouth  to  mouth,  and  the  place  resounded 
with  infernal  yells.  The  warriors  snatched  their  weapons. 
The  Illinois  took  part  with  their  guilty  countryman;  and 
the  few  followers  of  Pontiac,  driven  from  the  village,  fled 
to  spread  the  tidings  and  call  the  nations  to  revenge. 
Meanwhile  the  murdered  chief  lay  on  the  spot  where  he 
had  fallen,  until  St.  Ange,  mindful  of  former  friendship, 
sent  to  claim  the  body,  and  buried  it  with  warlike  honors, 
near  his  fort  of  St.  Louis. 

Thus  basely  perished  this  champion  of  a  ruined  race. 
But  could  his  shade  have  revisited  the  scene  of  murder,  his 
savage  spirit  would  have  exulted  in  the  vengeance  which 
overwhelmed  the  abettors  of  the  crime.  Whole  tribes 
were  rooted  out  to  expiate  it.  Chiefs  and  sachems,  whose 
veins  had  thrilled  with  his  eloquence;  young  warriors, 
whose  aspiring  hearts  had  caught  the  inspiration  of  his 
greatness,  mustered  to  revenge  his  fate;  and,  from  the  north 
and  the  east,  their  united  bands  descended  on  the  villages 
of  the  Illinois.  Tradition  has  but  faintly  preserved  the 
memory  of  the  event;  and  its  only  annalists,  men  who 
held  the  intestine  feuds  of  the  savage  tribes  in  no  more 
account  than  the  quarrels  of  panthers  or  wildcats,  have 
left  but  a  meagre  record.     Yet  enough  remains  to  tell  us 


Writers  of  the  Mid-  Century  and  After     259 

that  over  the  grave  of  Pontiac  more  blood  was  poured  out 
in  atonement,  than  flowed  from  the  veins  of  the  slaughtered 
heroes  on  the  corpse  of  Patroclus;  and  the  remnant  of  the 
Illinois  who  survived  the  carnage  remained  for  ever  after 
sunk  in  utter  insignificance. 

Neither  mound  nor  tablet  marked  the  burial-place  of 
Pontiac.  For  a  mausoleum,  a  city  has  risen  above  the 
forest  hero;  and  the  race  whom  he  hated  with  such  burn- 
ing rancor  trample  with  unceasing  footsteps  over  his  for- 
gotten grave. 

9.  John  Fiske  (184 2-1 901)  was  another  one  of  our  most 
famous  historians.  He  was  long  connected  with  Harvard. 
His  theme,  like  Parkman's,  was  America,  but  he  stressed  the 
institutional  and  governmental  side  of  the  story  of  the  Amer- 
ican nation.     (For  readings  see  Bibliography,  p.  267.) 

10.  Henry  W.  Grady  (i  850-1 889),  was  an  eloquent  Southern 
speaker  and  writer  who  did  much  by  his  addresses  and  writings 
to  establish  the  right  feeling  between  the  North  and  the  South 
after  the  Civil  War. 

The  Old  South  and  The  New 

(From  The  New  South,  a  speech  delivered  before  the  New  England 
Society  at  its  annual  dinner  in  New  York  City,  December  1 2, 
1886.  This  made  a  great  sensation.  Grady  himself  said: 
"  When  I  found  myself  on  my  feet, — I  knew  then  that  I  had 
a  message  for  that  assemblage.  As  soon  as  I  opened  my 
mouth  it  came  rushing  out.") 

"There  was  a  South  of  slavery  and  secession — that 
South  is  dead.  There  is  a  South  of  union  and  freedom — 
that  South,  thank  God,  is  Hving,  breathing,  growing  every 
hour."  These  words,  delivered  from  the  immortal  lips  of 
Benjamin  H.  Hill  at  Tammany  Hall  in  1866,  true  then  and 
true  now,  I  shall  make  my  text  to-night. 


My  friends.  Dr.  Talmage  has  told  you  that  the  typical 
American  has  yet  to  come.  Let  me  tell  you  that  he  has 
already  come.     Great  types,  like  valuable  plants,  are  slow 


260  American  Literature 

to  flower  and  fruit.  But  from  the  union  of  these  colonies, 
Puritans  and  Cavaliers,  from  the  straightening  of  their 
purposes  and  the  crossing  of  their  blood,  slow  perfecting 
through  a  century,  came  he  who  stands  as  the  first  t>^ical 
American,  the  first  who  comprehended  within  himself 
all  the  strength  and  gentleness,  all  the  majesty  and  grace 
of  this  republic — ^Abraham  Lincoln.  He  was  the  sum  of 
Puritan  and  Cavalier,  for  in  his  ardent  nature  were  fused 
the  virtues  of  both,  and  in  the  depths  of  his  great  soul  the 
faults  of  both  were  lost.  He  was  greater  than  Puritan, 
greater  than  Cavalier,  in  that  he  was  American,  and  that 
in  his  honest  form  were  first  gathered  the  vast  and  thrilling 
forces  of  his  ideal  government — charging  it  with  such  tre- 
mendous meaning  and  elevating  it  above  human  suffering, 
that  martyrdom,  though  infamously  aimed,  came  as  a 
fitting  crown  to  a  life  consecrated  from  the  cradle  to 
human  liberty.  Let  us,  each  cherishing  the  traditions 
and  honoring  his  fathers,  build  with  reverend  hands  to 
the  type  of  this  simple  but  sublime  life,  in  which  all  types 
are  honored,  and  in  our  common  glory  as  Americans  there 
will  be  plenty  and  to  spare  for  your  forefathers  and  for 
mine. 

Dr.  Talmage  has  drawn  for  you,  with  a  master's  hand, 
the  picture  of  your  returning  armies.  He  has  told  you 
how,  in  the  pomp  and  circumstance  of  war,  they  came  back 
to  you,  marching  with  proud  and  victorious  tread,  reading 
their  glory  in  a  nation's  eyes !  Will  you  bear  with  me 
while  I  tell  you  of  another  army  that  sought  its  home  at 
the  close  of  the  late  war — an  army  that  marched  home  in 
defeat  and  not  in  victory — in  pathos  and  not  in  splendor,  but 
in  glory  that  equaled  yours,  and  to  hearts  as  loving  as  ever 
welcomed  heroes  home !  Let  me  picture  to  you  the  foot- 
sore Confederate  soldier,  as,  buttoning  up  in  his  faded  gray 
jacket  the  parole  which  was  to  bear  testimony  to  his  chil- 
dren of  his  fidelity  and  faith,  he  turned  his  face  southward 
from  Appomattox  in  April,  1865.  Think  of  him  as  ragged, 
half-starved,  heavy-hearted,  enfeebled  by  want  and 
wounds.  Having  fought  to  exhaustion,  he  surrenders 
his  gun,  wrings  the  hands  of  his  comrades  in  silence,  and 


Writers  of  the  Mid- Century  and  After    261 

lifting  his  tear-stained  and  pallid  face  for  the  last  time  to 
the  graves  that  dot  old  Virginia  hills,  pulls  his  gray  cap 
over  his  brow  and  begins  the  slow  and  faithful  journey. 
What  does  he  find — let  me  ask  you  who  went  to  your 
homes  eager  to  find,  in  the  welcome  you  had  justly  earned, 
full  payment  for  four  years'  sacrifice — what  does  he  find 
when,  having  followed  the  battle-stained  cross  against 
overwhelming  odds,  dreading  death  not  half  so  much  as 
surrender,  he  reaches  the  home  he  left  so  prosperous  and 
beautiful. 

He  finds  his  house  in  ruins,  his  farm  devastated,  his 
slaves  free,  his  stock  killed,  his  barns  empty,  his  trade 
destroyed,  his  money  worthless,  his  social  system,  feudal 
in  its  magnificence,  swept  away;  his  people  without  law 
or  legal  status,  his  comrades  slain,  and  the  burdens  of 
others  heavy  on  his  shoulders.  Crushed  by  defeat,  his 
very  traditions  are  gone.  Without  money,  credit,  employ- 
ment, material,  or  training,  and,  besides  all  this,  confronted 
with  the  gravest  problem  that  ever  met  human  intelli- 
gence,— the  establishing  of  a  status  for  the  vast  body  of 
his  liberated  slaves. 

What  does  he  do — this  hero  in  gray  with  a  heart  of  gold  ? 
Does  he  sit  down  in  sullenness  and  despair?  Not  for  a 
day.  Surely  God,  who  had  stripped  him  of  his  prosperity, 
inspired  him  in  his  adversity.  As  ruin  was  never  before 
so  overwhelming,  never  was  restoration  swifter.  The 
soldier  stepped  from  the  trenches  into  the  furrow;  horses 
that  had  charged  Federal  guns  marched  before  the  plow, 
and  fields  that  ran  red  with  human  blood  in  April  were 
green  with  the  harvest  in  June;  women  reared  in  luxury 
cut  up  their  dresses  and  made  breeches  for  their  husbands, 
and,  with  a  patience  and  heroism  that  fit  women  always  as 
a  garment,  gave  their  hands  to  work.  There  was  little 
bitterness  in  all  this.  Cheerfulness  and  frankness  pre- 
vailed. .  .  . 

Never  was  nobler  duty  confided  to  human  hands  than 
the  uplifting  and  upbuilding  of  the  prostrate  and  bleeding 
South — misguided,  perhaps,  but  beautiful  in  her  suffering, 
and  honest,  brave  and  generous  always.     In  the  record  of 


262  American  Literature 

her  social,  industrial,  and  political  illustration  we  await 
with  confidence  the  verdict  of  the  world.  .  .  . 

The  new  South  is  enamored  of  her  new  work.  Her 
soul  is  stirred  with  the  breath  of  a  new  Hfe.  The  Hght  of 
a  grander  day  is  falling  fair  on  her  face.  She  is  thrilling 
with  the  consciousness  of  growing  power  and  prosperity. 
As  she  stands  upright,  full-statured  and  equal  among  the 
people  of  the  earth,  breathing  the  keen  air  and  looking 
out  upon  the  expanded  horizon,  she  understands  that  her 
emancipation  came  because  through  the  inscrutable  wis- 
dom of  God  her  honest  purpose  was  crossed,  and  her  brave 
armies  were  beaten. 

This  is  said  in  no  spirit  of  time-serving  or  apology.  The 
South  has  nothing  for  which  to  apologize.  She  believes 
that  the  late  struggle  between  the  States  was  war  and 
not  rebelUon;  revolution  and  not  conspiracy,  and  that  her 
convictions  were  as  honest  as  yours.  I  should  be  unjust 
to  the  dauntless  spirit  of  the  South  and  to  my  own  con- 
victions if  I  did  not  make  this  plain  in  this  presence.  The 
South  has  nothing  to  take  back.  In  my  native  town  of 
Athens  is  a  monument  that  crowns  its  central  hill — a 
plain,  white  shaft.  Deep  cut  into  its  shining  side  is  a  name 
dear  to  me  above  the  names  of  men — that  of  a  brave  and 
simple  man  who  died  in  brave  and  simple  faith.  Not  for 
all  the  glories  of  New  England,  from  Plymouth  Rock  all 
the  way,  would  I  exchange  the  heritage  he  left  me  in  his 
soldier's  death.  To  the  foot  of  that  shaft  I  shall  send  my 
children's  children  to  reverence  him  who  ennobled  their 
name  with  his  heroic  blood.  But,  sir,  speaking  from  the 
shadow  of  that  memory,  which  I  honor  as  I  do  nothing 
else  on  earth,  I  say  that  the  cause  in  which  he  suffered  and 
for  which  he  gave  his  hfe  was  adjudged  by  higher  and 
fuller  wisdom  than  his  or  mine,  and  I  am  glad  that  the 
omniscient  God  held  the  balance  of  battle  in  His  Almighty 
hand  and  that  human  slavery  was  swept  forever  from 
American  soil,  and  the  American  Union  was  saved  from 
the  wreck  of  war.  ... 

II.  Charles  Eliot  Norton  (1827-1908),  a  graduate  of  Har- 
vard and  for  many  years  a  professor  at  his  alma  mater j  was 


Writers  of  the  Mid- Century  and  After     263 

a  noted  New  England  scholar.  He  devoted  himself  to  art  and 
literature,  travelling  and  lecturing  much  both  in  Europe  and 
America. 

The  Building  of  the  Cathedral 

(From  Notes  of  Travel  and  Study  in  Italy,  ''Orvieto,"  March,  1856) 

The  best  Gothic  architecture,  indeed,  wherever  it  may 
be  found,  affords  evidence  that  the  men  who  executed  it 
were  moved  by  a  true  fervor  of  rehgious  faith.  In  build- 
ing a  church,  they  did  not  forget  that  it  was  to  be  the 
house  of  God.  No  portion  of  their  building  was  too 
minute,  no  portion  too  obscure,  to  be  perfected  with 
thorough  and  careful  labor.  The  work  was  not  let  out  by 
contract  or  taken  up  as  a  profitable  job.  The  architect 
of  a  cathedral  might  hve  all  his  life  within  the  shadow  of 
its  rising  walls,  and  die  no  richer  than  when  he  gave  the 
sketch;  but  he  was  well  repaid  by  the  delight  of  seeing 
his  design  grow  from  an  imagination  to  a  reality,  and  by 
spending  his  days  in  the  accepted  service  of  the  Lord. 

For  the  building  of  a  cathedral,  however,  there  needs 
not  only  a  spirit  of  religious  zeal  among  the  workmen,  but 
a  faith  no  less  ardent  among  the  people  for  whom  the 
church  is  designed.  The  enormous  expense  of  construc- 
tion, an  expense  which  for  generations  must  be  continued 
without  intermission,  is  not  to  be  met  except  by  liberal 
and  willing  general  contributions.  Papal  indulgences  and 
the  offerings  of  pilgrims  may  add  something  to  the  revenues, 
but  the  main  cost  of  building  must  be  borne  by  the  com- 
munity over  whose  house-tops  the  cathedral  is  to  rise  and 
to  extend  its  benign  protection. 

Cathedrals  were  essentially  expressions  of  the  popular 
will  and  the  popular  faith.  They  were  the  work  neither 
of  ecclesiastics  nor  of  feudal  barons.  They  represent,  in 
a  measure,  the  decline  of  feudalism,  and  the  prevalence  of 
the  democratic  element  in  society.  No  sooner  did  a  city 
achieve  its  freedom  than  its  people  began  to  take  thought 
for  a  cathedral.  Of  all  the  arts,  architecture  is  the  most 
quickly  responsive  to  the  instincts  and  the  desires  of  a 
people.     And  in  the  cathedrals,  the  popular  beliefs,  hopes, 


264  American  Literature 

fears,  fancies,  and  aspirations  found  expression,  and  were 
perpetuated  in  a  language  intelligible  to  all.  The  life  of 
the  Middle  Ages  is  recorded  on  their  walls.  When  the 
democratic  element  was  subdued,  as  in  Cologne  by  a 
Prince  Bishop,  or  in  Milan  by  a  succession  of  tyrants,  the 
cathedral  was  left  unfinished.  When,  in  the  fifteenth 
century,  all  over  Europe,  the  turbulent,  but  energetic 
liberties  of  the  people  were  suppressed,  the  building  of 
cathedrals  ceased. 

12.  Thomas  Wentworth  Higginson  (1823-1911)  was  a 
younger  member  of  the  famous  Cambridge  group  of  writers 
which  included  Longfellow,  Lowell,  and  Motley.  Though  he 
never  attained  the  distinction  of  the  writers  named,  he  was  the 
author  of  many  charming  essays  and  interesting  biographies 
and  histories.  He  was  a  bitter  opponent  of  slavery  and  was 
colonel  of  the  first  colored  regiment  formed  during  the  Civil 
War. 

Btmtni  and  the  Fountain  of  Youth 
(From  Tales  of  the  Enchanted  Islands  of  the  Atlantic,  Chapter  XX) 

When  Juan  Ponce  de  Leon  set  forth  from  Porto  Rico, 
March  13,  151 2,  to  seek  the  island  of  Bimini  and  its  Foun- 
tain of  Youth,  he  was  moved  by  the  love  of  adventure  more 
than  by  that  of  juvenility,  for  he  was  then  but  about  fifty, 
a  time  when  a  cavalier  of  his  day  thought  himself  but  in  his 
prime.  He  looked  indeed  with  perpetual  sorrow  .  .  .  upon 
his  kinsman  Luis  Ponce,  once  a  renowned  warrior,  but  on 
whom  age  had  already,  at  sixty-five,  laid  its  hand  in  earnest. 
...  It  was  a  vain  hope  of  restored  youth  which  had  brought 
Don  Luis  from  Spain  to  Porto  Rico  four  years  before;  and, 
when  Ponce  de  Leon  had  subdued  that  island,  his  older 
kinsman  was  forever  beseeching  him  to  carry  his  flag 
farther,  and  not  stop  till  he  had  reached  Bimini,  and 
sought  the  Fountain  of  Youth.  .  .  . 

*'How  know  we,"  said  his  kinsman,  *'that  there  is  any 
such  place?" 

*'A11  know  it,"  said  Luis.  "Peter  Martyr  saith  that 
there  is  in  Bimini  a  continual  spring  of  running  water^f 


Writers  of  the  Mid-  Century  and  After     '^65 

such  marvellous  virtue  that  the  water  thereof,  being  drunk, 
perhaps  with  some  diet,  maketh  old  men  young."  And 
he  adds  that  an  Indian  grievously  oppressed  with  old  age, 
moved  with  the  fame  of  that  fountain,  and  allured  through 
the  love  of  longer  Hfe,  went  to  an  island  near  unto  the 
country  of  Florida,  to  drink  of  the  desired  fountain,  .  .  .  and 
having  well  drunk  and  washed  himself  for  many  days  with 
the  appointed  remedies,  by  them  who  kept  the  bath,  he 
is  reported  to  have  brought  home  a  manly  strength,  and 
to  have  used  all  manly  exercises.  "Let  us  therefore  go 
thither,"  he  cried,  "and  be  like  him." 

They  set  sail  with  three  brigantines  and  found  without 
difficulty  the  island  of  Bimini  among  the  Lucayos  (or 
Bahamas)  islands;  but  when  they  searched  for  the  Foun- 
tain of  Youth  they  were  pointed  farther  westward  to 
Florida,  where  there  was  said  to  be  a  river  of  the  same 
magic  powers,  called  the  Jordan.  .  .  . 

They  came  at  last  to  an  inlet  which  led  invitingly  up 
among  wooded  banks  and  flowery  valleys,  and  here  the 
older  Knight  said,  "Let  us  disembark  here  and  strike  in- 
land. My  heart  tells  me  that  here  at  last  will  be  found 
the  Fountain  of  Youth."  "Nonsense,"  said  Juan,  "our 
way  Hes  by  water." 

"Then  leave  me  here  with  my  men,"  said  Luis.  .  .  . 

A  fierce  discussion  ended  in  Luis  obtaining  his  wish,  and 
being  left  for  a  fortnight  of  exploration;  his  kinsman  prom- 
ising to  come  for  him  again  at  the  mouth  of  the  river  St. 
John. ... 

Sending  the  youngest  of  his  men  up  to  the  top  of  a  tree, 
Luis  learned  from  him  that  they  were  on  an  island,  after 
all,  and  this  cheered  him  much,  as  making  it  more  Hkely  that 
they  should  find  the  Fountain  of  Youth.  He  saw  that  the 
ground  was  pawed  up,  as  if  in  a  cattle-range,  and  that 
there  was  a  path  leading  to  huts.  Taking  this  path,  they 
met  fifty  Indian  bowmen,  who,  whether  large  or  not, 
seemed  to  them  Hke  giants.  The  Spaniards  gave  them  beads 
and  hawk-bells  and  each  received  in  return  an  arrow,  as 
a  token  of  friendship.  ...  At  the  houses  there  were  many 
fires,  and  the  Spaniards  would  have  been  wholly  comfort- 


^QQ  American  Literature 

able  had  they  not  thought  it  just  possible  that  they  were 
to  be  offered  as  a  sacrifice.  Still  fearing  this,  they  left 
their  Indian  friends  after  a  few  days  and  traversed  the 
country,  stopping  at  every  spring  or  fountain  to  test  its 
quality.  Alas !  they  all  grew  older  and  more  worn  in  look, 
as  time  went  on,  and  farther  from  the  Fountain  of  Youth. 

After  a  time  they  came  upon  new  tribes  of  Indians,  and 
as  they  went  farther  from  the  coast  these  people  seemed 
more  and  more  friendly.  They  treated  the  wWte  men  as 
if  come  from  Heaven, — brought  them  food,  made  them 
houses,  carried  every  burden  for  them.  ...  If  the  visitors 
seemed  offended,  the  natives  were  terrified,  and  apparently 
thought  that  they  should  die  unless  they  had  the  favor  of 
these  wise  and  good  men.  .  .  .  Wherever  there  was  a 
fountain,  the  natives  readily  showed  it,  but  apparently 
knew  nothing  of  any  miraculous  gift;  yet  they  themselves 
were  in  such  fine  physical  condition,  and  seemed  so  young 
and  so  active,  that  it  was  as  if  they  had  already  bathed  in 
some  magic  spring.  They  had  wonderful  endurance  of 
heat  and  cold,  and  such  health  that,  when  their  bodies 
were  pierced  through  and  through  by  arrows,  they  would 
recover  rapidly  from  their  wounds.  These  things  con- 
vinced the  Spaniards  that,  even  if  the  Indians  would  not 
disclose  the  source  of  all  their  bodily  freshness,  it  must, 
at  any  rate,  lie  somewhere  in  the  neighborhood.  Yet  a 
little  while,  no  doubt,  and  their  visitors  would  reach  it. 

It  was  a  strange  journey  for  these  gray  and  care-worn 
men  as  they  passed  up  the  defiles  and  valleys  along  the 
St.  John's  River,  beyond  the  spot  where  now  spreads  the 
city  of  Jacksonville,  and  even  up  to  the  woods  and  springs 
about  Magnolia  and  Green  Cove.  Yellow  jasmines  trailed 
their  festoons  above  their  heads,  wild  roses  grew  at  their 
feet;  the  air  was  filled  with  the  aromatic  odors  of  pine  or 
sweet  bay;  the  long  gray  moss  hung  from  the  live-oak 
branches;  birds  and  butterflies  of  wonderful  hues  fluttered 
around  them;  and  strange  lizards  crossed  their  paths,  or 
looked  with  dull  and  blinking  eyes  from  the  branches. 
They  came  at  last  to  one  spring  which  widened  into  a 
natural  basin,  and  which  was  so  deliciously  aromatic  that 


Writers  of  the  Mid-  Century  and  After     267 

Luis  Ponce  said,  on  emerging:  "It  is  enough.  I  have 
bathed  in  the  Fountain  of  Youth,  and  henceforth  I  am 
young."  His  companions  tried  it,  and  said  the  same:  "The 
Fountain  of  Youth  is  found." 

No  time  must  now  be  lost  in  proclaiming  the  great  dis- 
covery. They  obtained  a  boat  from  the  natives,  who 
wept  at  parting  with  the  white  strangers  whom  they  had 
so  loved.  In  this  boat  they  proposed  to  reach  the  mouth 
of  the  St.  John,  meet  Juan  Ponce  de  Leon,  and  carry  back 
the  news  to  Spain.  But  one  native,  whose  wife  and  chil- 
dren they  had  cured,  and  who  had  grown  angry  at  their 
refusal  to  stay  longer,  went  down  to  the  water's  edge,  and, 
sending  an  arrow  from  his  bow,  transfixed  Don  Luis,  so 
that  even  his  fore-taste  of  the  Fountain  could  not  save 
him,  and  he  died  ere  reaching  the  mouth  of  the  river.  If 
Don  Luis  ever  reached  what  he  sought,  it  was  in  another 
world.  But  those  who  have  ever  bathed  in  Green  Cove 
Spring,  near  Magnolia,  on  the  St.  John's  River,  will  be 
ready  to  testify  that  had  he  but  stayed  there  longer,  he  would 
have  found  something  to  recall  his  visions  of  the  Fountain 
of  Youth. 

BIBLIOGRAPHY 

I.  For  Further  Illustration 

Brewer,  D.  J.:  The  World's  Best  Orations. 

Bryan,  W.  J.:  The  World's  Famous  Orations. 

Carpenter,  G.  R.:  American  Prose. 

Curtis,  G.  W. :   The  Public  Duty  of  Educated  Men. 

Denney,  Joseph  V.:  American  Public  Addresses. 

Fiske,  J.:  American  Political  Ideas. 

Moore,  F.:  American  Eloquence. 

Norton,  C.  E.:  Notes  of  Travel  and  Study  in  Italy.  . 

O'Connell,  Joseph  Moore:  Southern  Orators — Speeches  and  Orations. 

Parkman,  F.:  The  Oregon  Trail. 

(See  also  General  Bibliography,  p.  3.) 

II.  For  Collateral  Reading 

Andrews,  Mary  Raymond  Shipman:  The  Perfect  Tribute.     (Lin- 
coln's Gettysburg  Address.) 
Gerry,  Margarita  Spaulding»  The  Toy  Shop.     (A  Lincoln  Story.) 


268  American  Literature 

Higginson,  T.  W.:  Cheerful  Yesterday ^^ 

Lowell,  J.  R. :  Wendell  Phillips. 

Markham,  E.:  Lincoln,  the  Great  Commoner. 

POETRY 

Albert  Pike,  Theodore  O'Hara,  Henry  Timrod,  Paul 
Hamilton  Hayne,  and  Sidney  Lanier  are,  with  the  excep- 
tion of  Poe,  the  best  known  of  our  Southern  poets. 

I.  Albert  Pike  (i 809-1891),  a  soldier  of  the  Confederate 
army,  is  chiefly  remembered  for  his  song  Dixie  and  for  his  poem 
To  the  Mocking  Bird. 

Dixie 

Southrons,  hear  your  country  call  you ! 
Up  !  lest  worse  than  death  befall  you  ! 

To  arms !  to  arms  !  to  arms !  in  Dixie ! 
Lo !  the  beacon  fires  are  lighted, 
Let  all  hearts  be  now  united ! 

To  arms !  to  arms  !  to  arms  !  in  Dixie ! 
Advance  the  flag  of  Dixie ! 
Hurrah !     hurrah ! 
For  Dixie's  land  we'll  take  our  stand, 
To  Uve  or  die  for  Dixie ! 
To  arms  !  to  arms ! 

And  conquer  peace  for  Dixie ! 
To  arms  1  to  arms ! 

And  conquer  peace  for  Dixie ! 

Hear  the  Northern  thunders  mutter ! 
Northern  flags  in  South  winds  flutter ! 

To  arms !  to  arms  !  to  arms  !  in  Dixie ! 
Send  them  back  your  fierce  defiance ! 
Stamp  upon  the  accursed  aUiance ! 

To  arms  !  to  arms !  to  arms  !  in  Dixie ! 
Advance  the  flag  of  Dixie  !  etc. 

Fear  no  danger !  shun  no  labor  1 
Lift  up  rifle,  pike,  and  sabre ! 


Writers  of  the  Mid-  Century  and  After     269 

To  arms !  to  arms !  to  arms !  in  Dixie ! 
Shoulder  pressing  close  to  shoulder ! 
Let  the  odds  make  each  heart  bolder ! 

To  arms !  to  arms !  to  arms  !  in  Dixie ! 
Advance  the  flag  of  Dixie !  etc. 

How  the  South's  great  heart  rejoices 
At  your  cannon's  ringing  voices ! 

To  arms  !  to  arms !  to  arms  !  in  Dixie ! 
For  faith  betrayed  and  pledges  broken, 
Wrongs  inflicted,  insults  spoken. 

To  arms  !  to  arms !  to  arms !  in  Dixie ! 
Advance  the  flag  of  Dixie !  etc. 

Strong  as  lions,  swift  as  eagles, 

Back  to  their  kennels  hunt  these  beagles ! 

To  arms  !  to  arms  !  to  arms  !  in  Dixie ! 
Cut  the  unequal  bonds  asunder ! 
Let  them  hence  each  other  plunder ! 

To  arms  !  to  arms  !  to  arms !  in  Dixie ! 
Advance  the  flag  of  Dixie !  etc. 

Swear  upon  your  country's  altar 
Never  to  submit  or  falter; 

To  arms  !  to  arms !  to  arms  !  in  Dixie  I 
Till  the  spoilers  are  defeated, 
Till  the  Lord's  work  is  completed. 

To  arms !  to  arms !  to  arms !  in  Dixie ! 
Advance  the  flag  of  Dixie !  etc. 

Halt  not  till  our  federation 

Secures  among  earth's  Powers  its  station ! 

To  arms  !  to  arms !  to  arms  !  in  Dixie ! 
Then  at  peace,  and  crowned  with  glory, 
Hear  your  children  tell  the  story ! 

To  arms !  to  arms  !  to  arms !  in  Dixie ! 
Advance  the  flag  of  Dixie !  etc. 

If  the  loved  ones  weep  in  sadness, 
Victory  soon  shall  bring  them  gladness; 


£70  American  Literature 

To  arms !  to  arms !  to  arms !  in  Dixie ! 
Exultant  pride  soon  banish  sorrow; 
Smiles  chase  tears  away  to-morrow. 

To  arms !  to  arms  !  to  arms  !  in  Dixie ! 
Advance  the  flag  of  Dixie !  etc. 

2.  Theodore  0*Hara  (i 820-1 867)  was  a  Southerner  who 
made  his  reputation  as  a  writer  through  his  poem  The  Bivouac 
of  the  Dead,  which  commemorates  the  Kentuckians  who  fell  at 
the  battle  of  Buena  Vista. 

The  Bivouac  of  the  Dead 

The  muffled  drum's  sad  roll  has  beat 

The  soldier's  last  tattoo; 
No  more  on  life's  parade  shall  meet 

That  brave  and  fallen  few. 
On  Fame's  eternal  camping-ground 

Their  silent  tents  are  spread, 
And  Glory  guards,  with  solemn  round, 

The  bivouac  of  the  dead. 

No  rumor  of  the  foe's  advance 

Now  swells  upon  the  wind ; 
No  troubled  thought  at  midnight  haunts 

Of  loved  ones  left  behind; 
No  vision  of  the  morrow's  strife 

The  warrior's  dream  alarms; 
No  braying  horn  nor  screaming  fife 

At  dawn  shall  caU  to  arms. 

Their  shivered  swords  are  red  with  rust, 

Their  plumed  heads  are  bowed; 
Their  haughty  banner,  trailed  in  dust, 

Is  now  their  martial  shroud. 
And  plenteous  funeral  tears  have  washed 

The  red  stains  from  each  brow, 
And  the  proud  forms,  by  battle  gashed, 

Are  free  from  anguish  now. 


Writers  of  the  Mid- Century  and  After    271 

The  neighing  troop,  the  flashing  blade, 

The  bugle's  stirring  blast, 
The  charge,  the  dreadful  cannonade, 

The  din  and  shout,  are  past ; 
Nor  war's  wild  note,  nor  glory's  peal 

Shall  thrill  with  fierce  delight 
Those  breasts  that  never  more  may  feel 

The  rapture  of  the  fight. 

Like  the  fierce  northern  hurricane 

That  sweeps  this  great  plateau, 
Flushed  with  triumph  yet  to  gain, 

Came  down  the  serried  foe. 
Who  heard  the  thunder  of  the  fray 

Break  o'er  the  field  beneath, 
Knew  well  the  watchword  of  that  day 

Was  '^  Victory  or  death." 

Long  has  the  doubtful  conflict  raged 

O'er  all  that  stricken  plain. 
For  never  fiercer  fight  had  waged 

The  vengeful  blood  of  Spain; 
And  still  the  storm  of  battle  blew, 

Still  swelled  the  gory  tide; 
Not  long,  our  stout  old  chieftain  knew, 

Such  odds  his  strength  could  bide. 

^Twas  in  that  hour  his  stern  command 

Called  to  a  martyr's  grave 
The  flower  of  his  beloved  band 

The  nation's  flag  to  save. 
By  rivers  of  their  fathers'  gore 

His  first-born  laurels  grew. 
And  well  he  deemed  the  sons  would  pour 

Their  fives  for  glory  too. 

Full  many  a  norther's  breath  has  swept 

O'er  Angostura's  plain — 
And  long  the  pitying  sky  has  wept 

Above  its  mouldering  slain. 


272  American  Literature 

The  raven's  scream,  or  eagle's  flight, 

Or  shepherd's  pensive  lay, 
Alone  awakes  each  sullen  height 

That  frowned  o'er  that  dread  fray. 

Sons  of  the  Dark  and  Bloody  Ground, 

Ye  must  not  slumber  there. 
Where  stranger  steps  and  tongues  resoimd 

Along  the  heedless  air. 
Your  own  proud  land's  heroic  soil 

Shall  be  your  fitter  grave; 
She  claims  from  War  his  richest  spoil — 

The  ashes  of  her  brave. 

Thus  'neath  their  parent  turf  they  rest. 

Far  from  the  gory  field; 
Borne  to  a  Spartan  mother's  breast 

On  many  a  bloody  shield; 
The  sunlight  of  their  native  sky 

Smiles  sadly  on  them  here, 
And  kindred  eyes  and  hearts  watch  by 

The  heroes'  sepulchre. 

Rest  on,  embalmed  and  sainted  dead. 

Dear  as  the  blood  ye  gave, 
No  impious  footstep  here  shall  tread 

The  herbage  of  your  grave. 
Nor  shall  your  glory  be  forgot 

While  Fame  her  record  keeps, 
Or  Honor  points  the  hallowed  spot 

Where  Valor  proudly  sleeps. 

Yon  marble  minstrel's  voiceless  stone 

In  deathless  song  shall  tell 
When  many  a  vanished  age  hath  flown, 

The  story  how  ye  fell; 
Nor  wreck,  nor  change,  nor  winter's  blight, 

Nor  Time's  remorseless  doom. 
Shall  dim  one  ray  of  glory's  light 

That  gilds  your  glorious  tomb. 


Writers  of  the  Mid- Century  and  After    273 

Compare  with  this:  CoUins's  How  Sleep  the  Brave; 
Tennyson's  Balaclava. 

3.  Henry  Timrod  (1829-1867)  was  a  native  of  South  Caro- 
lina. He  attended  the  University  of  Georgia  but  could  not 
finish  his  course  because  of  poverty.  During  the  Civil  War  he 
enlisted  as  a  volunteer  for  the  Confederacy.  Before  and  after 
the  war  he  devoted  himself  to  literature,  and  he  ranks  to-day 
as  one  of  the  most  considerable  of  our  Southern  poets. 

Ode 

Sleep  sweetly  in  your  humble  graves, 
Sleep,  martyrs  of  a  fallen  cause; 

Though  yet  no  marble  column  craves 
The  pilgrim  here  to  pause. 

In  seeds  of  laurel  in  the  earth 

The  blossom  of  your  fame  is  blown, 

And  somewhere,  waiting  for  its  birth, 
The  shaft  is  in  the  stone ! 

Meanwhile,  behalf  the  tardy  years 
Which  keep  in  trust  your  storied  tombs, 

Behold !  your  sisters  bring  their  tears 
And  these  memorial  blooms. 

Small  tributes !  but  your  shades  vaW  smile 
More  proudly  on  these  wreaths  to-day. 

Than  when  some  cannon-moulded  pile 
Shall  overlook  this  bay. 

Stoop,  angels,  hither  from  the  skies ! 

There  is  no  hoKer  spot  of  ground 
Than  where  defeated  valor  hes. 

By  mourning  beauty  crowned ! 

Whittier  called  this  Ode  "the  noblest  poem  ever  written 
by  a  Southern  poet." 

Compare  with  this  Collins's  Ode  How  Sleep  the  Brave! 


274  American  Literature 

4.  Paul  Hamilton  Hayne  (1830-1886)  was  also  a  South 
Carolinian.  He  belonged  to  a  wealthy  family  and  had  the  best 
advantages  in  education  and  association.  He  graduated  from 
Charleston  College  and  became  identified  with  the  leading 
literary  circles  of  the  city.  Because  of  his  health,  he  could  not 
enUst  in  the  Southern  cause  at  the  outbreak  of  the  Civil  War, 
but  he  wrote  many  stirring  war  lyrics  to  encourage  his  people. 

In  the  Wheat-Field 

When  the  lids  of  the  virgin  Dawn  unclose, 

When  the  earth  is  fair  and  the  heavens  are  calm, 
And  the  early  breath  of  the  wakening  rose 

Floats  on  the  air  in  balm, 
I  stand  breast-high  in  the  pearly  wheat 

That  ripples  and  thrills  to  a  sportive  breeze. 
Borne  over  the  field  with  its  Hermes  feet, 

And  its  subtle  odor  of  southern  seas; 
While  out  of  the  infinite  azure  deep 
The  flashing  wings  of  the  swallows  sweep. 
Buoyant  and  beautiful,  wild  and  fleet. 
Over  the  waves  of  the  whispering  wheat. 

Aurora  faints  in  the  fulgent  fire 

Of  the  Monarch  of  Morning's  bright  embrace, 
And  the  summer  day  climbs  higher  and  higher 

Up  the  cerulean  space; 
The  pearl- tints  fade  from  the  radiant  grain 

And  the  sportive  breeze  of  the  ocean  dies, 
And  soon  in  the  noontide's  soundless  rain 

The  fields  seem  graced  by  a  million  eyes; 
Each  grain  with  a  glance  from  its  lidded  fold 
As  bright  as  a  gnome's  in  his  mine  of  gold. 
While  the  slumb'rous  glamour  of  beam  and  heat 
Glides  over  and  under  the  windless  wheat. 

Yet  the  languid  spirit  of  lazy  Noon, 

With  its  minor  and  Morphean  music  rife, 

Is  pulsing  in  low,  voluptuous  tune 
With  summer's  lust  of  life. 


Writers  of  the  Mid-  Century  and  After     275 

Hark !  to  the  droning  of  drowsy  wings, 

To  the  honey-bees  as  they  go  and  come, 
To  the  "boomer"  scarce  rounding  his  sultry  rings, 

The  gnat's  small  horn  and  the  beetle's  hum; 
And  hark  to  the  locust ! — noon's  one  shrill  song. 
Like  the  tingling  steel  of  an  elfin  gong, 
Grows  lower  through  quavers  of  long  retreat 
To  swoon  on  the  dazzled  and  distant  wheat. 

Now  day  declines !  and  his  shafts  of  might 

Are  sheathed  in  a  quiver  of  opal  haze; 
Still  thro'  the  chastened,  but  magic  light, 

What  sunset  grandeurs  blaze  ! 
For  the  sky,  in  its  mellowed  luster,  seems 

Like  the  realm  of  a  master  poet's  mind, — 
A  shifting  kingdom  of  splendid  dreams, — 

With  fuller  and  fairer  truths  behind; 
And  the  changeful  colors  that  blend  or  part. 
Ebb  like  the  tides  of  a  living  heart. 
As  the  splendor  melts  and  the  shadows  meet, 
And  the  tresses  of  TwiHght  trail  over  the  wheat. 

Compare  with  this  Lanier's  Corn, 

5.  Sidney  Lanier  (i 842-1 881),  the  musician  poet,  is  next 
to  Poe  the  greatest  of  our  Southern  writers.  He  was  born  in 
Georgia  and  educated  at  Oglethorpe  College.  During  the 
Civil  War  he  entered  the  ranks  of  the  Confederacy  and  was 
confine^i  for  five  months  in  a  Union  prison.  After  the  war  he 
went  to  Baltimore,  where  he  was  engaged  as  flute-player  by 
the  Peabody  Orchestra  and  later  as  lecturer  on  English  litera- 
ture by  Johns  Hopkins  University.  The  musical  quality  of  his 
verse  is  remarkable,  as  is  shown  in  the  following  selections. 

The  Marshes  of  Glynn 

O  braided  dusks  of  the  oak  and  woven  shades  of  the  vine, 
While  the  riotous  noonday  sun  of  the  June  day  long  did 

shine 
Ye  held  me  fast  in  your  heart  and  I  held  you  fast  in  mine; 
But  now  when  the  noon  is  no  more,  and  riot  is  rest, 


276  American  Literature 

And  the  sun  is  a-wait  at  the  ponderous  gate  of  the  West, 
And  the  slant  yellow  beam  down  the  wood-aisle  doth  seem 
Like  a  lane  into  heaven  that  leads  from  a  dream, — 
Ay,  now,  when  my  soul  all  day  hath  drunken  the  soul  of 

the  oak, 
And  my  heart  is  at  ease  from  men,  and  the  wearisome 
sound  of  the  stroke 
Of  the  scythe  of  time  and  the  trowel  of  trade  is  low, 
And  belief  overmasters  doubt,  and  I  know  that  I  know, 
And  my  spirit  is  grown  to  a  lordly  great  compass  within. 
That  the  length  and  the  breadth  and  the  sweep  of  the 

marshes  of  Glynn 
Will  work  me  no  fear  like  the  fear  they  have  wrought  me 

of  yore 
When  length  was  fatigue,  and  when  breadth  was  but  bit- 
terness sore. 
And  when  terror  and  shrinking  and  dreary  unnamable  pain 
Drew  over  me  out  of  the  merciless  miles  of  the  plain, — 

Oh,  now,  imafraid,  I  am  fain  to  face 

The  vast,  sweet  visage  of  space. 
To  the  edge  of  the  wood  I  am  drawn,  I  am  drawn. 
Where  the  gray  beach  gUmmering  runs,  as  a  belt  of  the  dawn, 
For  a  mete  and  a  mark 
To  the  forest — dark: — 
So: 
Affable  live  oak,  leaning  low, — 
Thus — with  your  favor — soft,  with  a  reverent  hand, 
(Not  lightly  touching  your  person,  Lord  of  the  land !) 
Bending  your  beauty  aside,  with  a  step  I  stand 
On  the  firm-packed  sand. 

Free 
By  a  world  of  marsh,  that  borders  a  world  of  sea. 

Sinuous  southward  and  sinuous  northward  the  shimmer- 
ing band 
Of  the  sand-beach  fastens  the  fringe  of  the  marsh  to  the 
folds  of  the  land. 
Inward   and  outward  to  northward  and  southward  the 
beach-lines  linger  and  curl 


Writers  of  the  Mid-  Century  and  After    277 

As  a  silver- wrought  garment  that  clings  to  and  follows  the 

firm  sweet  limbs  of  a  girl. 
Vanishing,  swerving,  evermore  curving  again  into  sight, 
Softly  the  sand-beach  wavers  away  to  a  dim  gray  looping 

of  light. 
And  what  if  behind  me  to  westward  the  wall  of  the  woods 

stands  high  ? 
The  world  lies  east:  how  ample  the  marsh  and  the  sea  and 

the  sky ! 
A  league  and  a  league  of  marsh  grass,  waist-high,  broad  in 

the  blade. 
Green,  and  all  of  a  height,  and  unflecked  with  a  light  or  a 

shade. 
Stretch  leisurely  off,  in  a  pleasant  plain, 
To  the  terminal  blue  of  the  main. 

Oh,  what  is  abroad  in  the  marsh  and  the  terminal  sea  ? 

Somehow  my  soul  seems  suddenly  free 
From  the  weighing  of  fate  and  the  sad  discussion  of  sin, 
By  the  length  and  the  breadth  and  the  sweep  of  the  marshes 
of  Glynn. 

Ye  marshes,  how  candid  and  simple  and  nothing-withhold- 
ing and  free 
Ye  publish  yourselves  to  the  sky  and  offer  yourselves  to 

the  sea ! 
Tolerant  plains,  that  suffer  the  sea  and  the  rains  and  the  sun, 
Ye  spread  and  span  like  the  catholic  man  who  hath  mightily 

won 
God  out  of  knowledge  and  good  out  of  infinite  pain 
And  sight  out  of  blindness  and  purity  out  of  a  stain. 

As  the  marsh-hen  secretly  builds  on  the  watery  sod, 
Behold  I  will  build  me  a  nest  on  the  greatness  of  God: 
I  will  fly  in  the  greatness  of  God  as  the  marsh-hen  flies 
In  the  freedom  that  fills  all  the.  space  'twixt  the  marsh  and 

the  skies: 
By  so  many  roots  as  the  marsh-grass  sends  in  the  sod 
I  will  heartily  lay  me  a-hold  on  the  greatness  of  God: 


278  American  Literature 

Oh,  like  to  the  greatness  of  God  is  the  greatness  within 
The  range  of  the  marshes,  the  liberal  marshes  of  Glynn. 

And  the  sea  lends  large,  as  the  marsh :  lo,  out  of  his  plenty 

the  sea 
Pours  fast :  full  soon  the  time  of  the  flood- tide  must  be : 
Look  how  the  grace  of  the  sea  doth  go 
About  and  about  through  the  intricate  channels  that  flow 
Here  and  there. 
Everywhere, 
Till  his  waters  have  flooded  the  uttermost  creeks  and  the 

low-lying  lanes, 
And  the  marsh  is  meshed  with  a  milUon  veins, 
That  hke  as  with  rosy  and  silvery  essences  flow 
In  the  rose-and-silver  evening  glow. 
Farewell,  my  lord  Sun ! 
The  creeks  overflow :  a  thousand  rivulets  nm 
'Twixt  the  roots  of  the  sod;  the  blades  of  the  marsh  grass 

stir; 
Passeth  a  hurrying  sound  of  wings  that  westward  whirr; 
Passeth,  and  all  is  still;  and  the  currents  cease  to  run; 
And  the  sea  and  the  marsh  are  one. 

How  still  the  plains  of  the  waters  be  I 
The  tide  is  in  his  ecstasy; 
The  tide  is  at  its  highest  height: 
And  it  is  night. 

And  now  from  the  Vast  of  the  Lord  will  the  waters  of  sleep 

Roll  in  on  the  souls  of  men. 

But  who  will  reveal  to  our  waking  ken 

The  forms  that  swim  and  the  shapes  that  creep 

Under  the  waters  of  sleep  ? 
And  I  would  I  could  know  what  swinmieth  below  when  the 

tide  comes  in 
On  the  length  and  the  breadth  of  the  marvellous  marshes 

of  Glynn. 


Writers  of  the  Mid- Century  and  After    279 


Song  of  the  Chattahoochee 

Out  of  the  hills  of  Habersham. 

Down  the  valleys  of  Hall, 
I  hurry  amain  to  reach  the  plain, 
Run  the  rapid  and  leap  the  fall, 
Split  at  the  rock  and  together  again, 
Accept  my  bed,  or  narrow  or  wide. 
And  flee  from  folly  on  every  side 
With  a  lover's  pain  to  attain  the  plain 

Far  from  the  hills  of  Habersham, 

Far  from  the  valleys  of  Hall. 

All  down  the  hills  of  Habersham, 

All  through  the  valleys  of  Hall, 
The  rushes  cried  Abide,  abide, 
The  wilful  waterweeds  held  me  thrall, 
The  laving  laurels  turned  my  tide. 
The  ferns  and  the  fondling  grass  said  Stay, 
The  dewberry  dipped  for  to  work  delay. 
And  the  Httle  reeds  sighed  Abide,  abide, 

Here  in  the  hills  of  Habersham, 

Here  in  the  valleys  of  Hall. 

High  o'er  the  hills  of  Habersham, 

Veiling  the  valleys  of  Hall, 
The  hickory  told  me  manifold 
Fair  tales  of  shade,  the  poplar  tall 
Wrought  me  her  shadowy  self  to  hold, 
The  chestnut,  the  oak,  the  walnut,  the  pine, 
Overleaning,  with  flickering  meaning  and  sign, 
Said,  Pass  not,  so  cold,  these  manifold 

Deep  shades  of  the  hills  of  Habersham, 

These  glades  in  the  valleys  of  Hall. 

And  oft  in  the  hills  of  Habersham, 
And  oft  in  the  valleys  of  Hall, 
The  white  quartz  shone,  and  the  smooth  brook-stone 


280'  American  Literature 

Did  bar  me  of  passage  with  friendly  brawl, 

And  many  a  luminous  jewel  lone 

— Crystals  clear  or  a-cloud  with  mist, 

Ruby,  garnet,  and  amethyst — 

Made  lures  with  the  lights  of  streaming  stone 
In  the  clefts  of  the  hills  of  Habersham, 
In  the  beds  of  the  valleys  of  Hall. 

But  oh,  not  the  hills  of  Habersham, 

And,  oh,  not  the  valleys  of  Hall 
Avail:  I  am  fain  for  to  water  the  plain. 
Downward  the  voices  of  Duty  call — 
Downward,  to  toil  and  be  mixed  with  the  main. 
The  dry  fields  burn,  and  the  mills  are  to  turn, 
And  a  myriad  flowers  mortally  yearn. 
And  the  lordly  main  from  beyond  the  plain 

Calls  o'er  the  hills  of  Habersham, 

Calls  through  the  valleys  of  Hall. 

Compare  with  the  last  poem  above:  Tennyson's  Brook; 
Sou  they 's  The  Cataract  of  Lodore;  Hayne's  Meadow  Brook. 

6.     Stephen   C.   Foster  (1826-1864)  was  the  author  of  the 
popular  Old  Folks  at  Home  and  My  Old  Kentucky  Home, 

Old  Folks  at  Home 

Way  down  upon  de  Swanee  Ribber 

Far,  far  away, 
Dere's  wha  my  heart  is  turning  ebber, 

Dere's  wha  de  old  folks  stay. 
All  up  and  down  de  whole  creation 

Sadly  I  roam, 
Still  longing  for  de  old  plantation. 

And  for  de  old  folks  at  home. 

All  de  world  am  sad  and  dreary, 

Ebery  where  I  roam; 
Oh,  darkeys,  how  my  heart  grows  weary, 

Far  from  de  old  folks  at  home ! 


Writers  of  the  Mid- Century  and  After     281 

All  round  de  little  farm  I  wandered 

When  I  was  young, 
Den  many  happy  days  I  squandered, 

Many  de  songs  I  sung, 
When  I  was  playing  wid  my  brudder 

Happy  was  I; 
Oh,  take  me  to  my  kind  old  mudder ! 

Dere  let  me  live  and  die. 

One  little  hut  among  de  bushes, 

One  dat  I  love, 
Still  sadly  to  my  memory  rushes, 

No  matter  where  I  rove. 
When  will  I  see  de  bees  a-humming 

All  round  de  comb  ? 
When  will  I  hear  de  banjo  tumming, 

Down  in  my  good  old  home  ? 

All  de  world  am  sad  and  dreary, 

Ebery  where  I  roam. 
Oh,  darkeys,  how  my  heart  grows  weary, 

Far  from  de  old  folks  at  home ! 

7.  Alice  Gary  (1820-1871)  composed  some  beautiful  lyrics. 
Horace  Greeley  said  of  her:  "I  do  not  believe  that  she  ever 
wrote  one  line  that  she  did  not  believe  to  be  true.  She  con- 
centrated all  her  powers  and  energies  on  the  task  of  making 
truth  more  palpable  and  good,  more  acceptable  to  hungry  wait- 
ing souls." 

Balder's  Wife 

Her  casement  like  a  watchful  eye 

From  the  face  of  the  wall  looks  down, 
Lashed  round  with  ivy  vines  so  dry, 

And  with  ivy  leaves  so  brown. 
Her  golden  head  in  her  lily  hand 

Like  a  star  in  the  spray  o'  the  sea, 
And  wearily  rocking  to  and  fro, 
She  sings  so  sweet  and  she  sings  so  low 

To  the  little  babe  on  her  knee. 


282  American  Literature 

But  let  her  sing  what  tune  she  may, 
Never  so  light  and  never  so  gay, 
It  slips  and  slides  and  dies  away 
To  the  moan  of  the  willow  water. 

Like  some  bright  honey-hearted  rose 

That  the  wild  wind  rudely  mocks, 
She  blooms  from  the  dawn  to  the  day's  sweet  close 

Hemmed  in  with  a  world  of  rocks. 
The  livelong  night  she  does  not  stir, 

But  keeps  at  her  casement  lorn. 
And  the  skirts  of  the  darkness  shine  with  her 

As  they  shine  with  the  light  o'  the  morn, 
And  all  who  pass  may  hear  her  lay, 
But  let  it  be  what  tune  it  may. 
It  slips  and  sHdes  and  dies  away 

To  the  moan  of  the  willow  water. 

And  there,  within  that  one-eyed  tower, 

Lashed  round  with  the  ivy  brown, 
She  droops  like  some  unpitied  flower 

That  the  rain-fall  washes  down: 
The  damp  o'  the  dew  in  her  golden  hair, 

Her  cheek  like  the  spray  o'  the  sea, 
And  wearily  rocking  to  and  fro, 
She  sings  so  sweet  and  she  sings  so  low 

To  the  little  babe  on  her  knee. 
But  let  her  sing  what  tune  she  may, 
Never  so  glad  and  never  so  gay. 
It  slips  and  slides  and  dies  away 

To  the  moan  of  the  willow  water. 

8.    Phoebe  Gary  (1824-1871),  the  younger  sister  of  Alice,  is 
remembered  for  the  familiar  hymn  which  follows. 

Nearer  Home 

One  sweetly  solemn  thought 

Comes  to  me  o'er  and  o'er; 
I  am  nearer  home  to-day 

Than  I  ever  have  been  before; 


Writers  of  the  Mid-  Century  and  After     283 

Nearer  my  Father's  house, 
Where  the  many  mansions  be; 

Nearer  the  great  white  throne, 
Nearer  the  crystal  sea; 

Nearer  the  bound  of  Hfe, 

Where  we  lay  our  burdens  down; 

Nearer  leaving  the  cross, 
Nearer  gaining  the  crown ! 

But  lying  darkly  between. 

Winding  down  through  the  night, 

Is  the  silent,  unknown  stream. 
That  leads  at  last  to  the  light. 

Closer  and  closer  my  steps 

Come  to  the  dread  abysm: 
Closer  Death  to  my  lips 

Presses  the  awful  chrism. 

Oh,  if  my  mortal  feet 

Have  almost  gained  the  brink; 

If  it  be  I  am  nearer  home 
Even  to-day  than  I  think; 

Father,  perfect  my  trust; 

Let  my.  spirit  feel  in  death, 
That  her  feet  are  firmly  set 

On  the  rock  of  a  Hving  faith ! 

9.  Thomas  Buchanan  Read  (1822-1872)  was  a  Pennsyl- 
vania artist  and  a  poet  of  no  mean  ability.  His  most  famous 
poem  is  the  battle  song  Sheridan's  Ride,  which  follows. 

Sheridan's  Ride 

I. 

Up  from  the  South,  at  break  of  day, 
Bringing  to  Winchester  fresh  dismay, 
The  affrighted  air  with  a  shudder  bore, 
Like  a  herald  in  haste,  to  a  chieftain's  door 


284  American  Literature 

The  terrible  grumble,  and  rumble,  and  roar 
Telling  the  battle  was  on  once  more. 
And  Sheridan  twenty  miles  away. 

2. 

And  wider  still  those  billows  of  war 

Thundered  along  the  horizon's  bar; 

And  louder  yet  into  Winchester  rolled 

The  roar  of  that  red  sea  uncontrolled 

Making  the  blood  of  the  listener  cold 

As  he  thought  of  the  stake  in  that  fiery  fray, 

With  Sheridan  twenty  miles  away. 

3- 
But  there  is  a  road  from  Winchester  town, 
A  good  broad  highway  leading  down; 
And  there  through  the  flush  of  the  morning  light, 
A  steed  as  black  as  the  steeds  of  night, 
Was  seen  to  pass  with  eagle  flight. 
As  if  he  knew  the  terrible  need. 
He  stretched  away  with  his  utmost  speed; 
Hills  rose  and  fell, — but  his  heart  was  gay 
With  Sheridan  fifteen  miles  away. 

4. 

Still  sprang  from  those  swift  hoofs,  thundering  south 
The  dust  like  smoke  from  the  cannon's  mouth 
Or  the  trail  of  a  comet,  sweeping  faster  and  faster, 
Foreboding  to  traitors  the  doom  of  disaster. 
The  heart  of  the  steed  and  the  heart  of  the  master 
Were  beating  like  prisoners  assaulting  the  walls 
Impatient  to  be  where  the  battlefield  calls; 
Every  nerve  of  the  charger  was  strained  to  full  play 
With  Sheridan  only  ten  miles  away. 

5- 
Under  his  spuming  feet  the  road 
Like  an  arrowy  Alpine  river  flowed, 


Writers  of  the  Mid-  Century  and  After     285 

And  the  landscape  sped  away  behind 

Like  an  ocean  flying  before  the  wind; 

And  the  steed,  like  a  bark  fed  with  furnace  fire 

Swept  on  with  his  wild  eyes  full  of  ire, 

But  lo  !  he  is  nearing  his  heart's  desire, 

He  is  snuffing  the  smoke  of  the  roaring  fray, 

With  Sheridan  only  five  miles  away. 

6. 

The  first  that  the  general  saw  were  the  groups 

Of  stragglers,  and  then  the  retreating  troops; 

What  was  done, — what  to  do, — a  glance  told  him  both^ 

And,  striking  his  spurs  with  a  terrible  oath, 

He  dashed  down  the  fine  mid  a  storm  of  huzzas, 

And  the  wave  of  retreat  checked  its  course  there  because 

The  sight  of  the  master  compelled  it  to  pause, 

With  foam  and  with  dust  the  black  charger  was  gray; 

By  the  flash  of  his  eye  and  the  red  nostrils'  play 

He  seemed  to  the  whole  great  army  to  say, 

*'I  have  brought  you  Sheridan  all  the  way 

From  Winchester,  down  to  save  the  day ! " 

7- 
Hurrah !  hurrah  for  Sheridan  ! 
Hurrah  !  hurrah  for  horse  and  man  ! 
And  when  their  statues  are  placed  on  high, 
Under  the  dome  of  the  Union  sky, — 
The  American  soldier's  Temple  of  Fame, — 
Then  with  the  glorious  General's  name 
Be  it  said  in  letters  both  bold  and  bright: 
"Here  is  the  steed  that  saved  the  day 
By  carrying  Sheridan  into  the  fight, 
From  Winchester — twenty  miles  away !" 

lo.  Emily  Dickinson  (i  830-1 886)  lived  a  life  of  seclusion 
at  Amherst,  Massachusetts,  where  she  wrote  some  remarkable 
poems  which  are  in  a  class  by  themselves.  They  were  not  pub- 
lished until  1890,  four  years  after  her  death.  (See  Bibliography,, 
page  294,  for  suggested  readings.) 


286  American  Literature 

II.  Edward  Rowland  Sill  (1841-1887)  was  a  native  of  New 
England.  He  went  to  California  for  his  health,  where  he  became 
professor  of  English  literature  in  the  University  of  California. 
He  '*  exhibited  a  notable  talent  in  his  poetry,  which  shows  rich 
gifts  of  spiritual  insight  and  power,"  says  Professor  Simonds. 

The  Fool's  Prayer 

The  royal  feast  was  done;  the  King 
Sought  some  new  sport  to  banish  care, 

And  to  his  jester  cried:  ^'Sir  Fool, 

Kneel  now,  and  make  for  us  a  prayer  1 '' 

The  jester  doffed  his  cap  and  bells. 
And  stood  the  mocking  court  before; 

They  could  not  see  the  bitter  smile 
Behind  the  painted  grin  he  wore. 

He  bowed  his  head,  and  bent  his  knee 
Upon  the  monarch's  silken  stool; 

His  pleading  voice  arose:  *'0  Lord, 
Be  merciful  to  me,  a  fool ! 

*'No  pity,  Lord,  could  change  the  heart 
From  red  with  wrong  to  white  as  wool: 

The  rod  must  heal  the  sin;  but  Lord, 
Be  merciful  to  me,  a  fool ! 

*''Tis  not  by  guilt  the  onward  sweep 
Of  truth  and  right,  O  Lord,  we  stay; 

'Tis  by  our  follies  that  so  long 
We  hold  the  earth  from  heaven  away. 

"These  clumsy  feet,  still  in  the  mire. 
Go  crushing  blossoms  without  end; 

These  hard,  well-meaning  hands  we  thrust 
Among  the  heart-strings  of  a  friend. 

"The  ill-timed  truth  we  might  have  kept — 
Who  knows  how  sharp  it  pierced  and  stung ! 


JVriters  of  the  Mid-  Century  and  After     287 

The  word  we  had  not  sense  to  say — 
Who  knows  how  grandly  it  had  rung ! 

"Our  faults  no  tenderness  should  ask, 

The  chastening  stripes  must  cleanse  them  all; 

But  for  our  blunders — oh,  in  shame 
Before  the  eyes  of  heaven  we  fall. 

"Earth  bears  no  balsam  for  mistakes; 

Men  crown  the  knave,  and  scourge  the  tool 
That  did  his  will;  but  Thou,  O  Lord,  ' 

Be  merciful  to  me,  a  fool." 

The  room  was  hushed;  in  silence  rose 
The  King,  and  sought  his  gardens  cool, 

And  walked  apart,  and  murmured  low, 
"Be  merciful  to  me,  a  fool !" 

12.  Emma  Lazarus  (1849-188 7)  was  a  Jewess  of  New  York 
City  who  wrote  some  remarkable  poems  protesting  against  the 
persecution  of  her  race  in  Russia.  She  had  a  message  to  de- 
liver to  her  people,  but  unhappily  it  was  given  only  in  part, 
because  of  her  untimely  death.  (See  Bibliography,  page  294, 
for  suggested  readings.) 

13.  Walt  Whitman  (1819-1892),  the  most  unconventional 
of  all  our  poets  both  in  choice  of  theme  and  form  of  expression, 
aspired  to  be  the  poet  of  Democracy.  He  was  born  on  Long 
Island,  was  practically  self-educated,  became  a  teacher,  and 
later  a  journalist.  During  the  Civil  War  he  went  to  Wash- 
ington where  he  served  as  nurse  in  the  hospitals.  His  latter 
days  were  spent  in  Camden,  New  Jersey,  where  he  was  known 
as  "  the  good  gray  poet  of  Camden  Town."  He  is  sometimes 
called  "  the  poet  of  epithets,  phrases,  lines."  "  His  message  was 
unique,  his  manner  of  giving  it  bizarre,"  yet  he  was  a  real  force 
in  literature  and  has  had  much  influence.  Mr.  Edmund  Gosse 
calls  him  a  poet  in  solution.  The  following  extracts  show  not 
only  his  eccentricities  of  form  but  his  sincerity  of  purpose. 
In  O  Captain!  My  Captain!  and  some  other  poems  he  dem- 
onstrates that  it  was  possible  for  him  to  follow  regular  form 
if  he  so  willed. 


288  American  Literature 

Myself 

(From  The  Song  of  Myself) 

I  celebrate  myself,  and  sing  myself, 

And  what  I  assume  you  shall  assume, 

For  every  atom  belonging  to  me  as  good  belongs  to  you. 

I  loaf  and  invite  my  soul, 

I  lean  and  loaf  at  my  ease  observing  a  spear  of  summer  grass. 

My  tongue,  every  atom  of  my  blood,  formed  from  this 

soil,  this  air. 
Born  here  of  parents  bom  here  from  parents  the  same,  and 

their  parents  the  same, 
I,  now  thirty-seven  years  old  in  perfect  health  begin, 
Hoping  to  cease  not  till  death. 

Creeds  and  schools  in  abeyance, 

Retiring  back  awhile  sufficed  at  what  they  are,  but  never 

forgotten, 
I  harbor  for  good  or  bad,  I  permit  to  speak  at  every  hazard, 
Nature  without  check  with  original  energy. 

O  Captain!    My  Captain! 

O  Captain !  my  Captain  1  our  fearful  trip  is  done. 

The  ship  has  weathered  every  rack,  the  prize  we  sought  is 

won. 
The  port  is  near,  the  bells  I  hear,  the  people  all  exulting, 
While  follow  eyes  the  steady  keel,  the  vessel  grim  and  dar- 
ing; 
But  O  heart !  heart !  heart ! 
O  the  bleeding  drops  of  red, 

Where  on  the  deck  my  Captain  lies, 
Fallen  cold  and  dead. 

O  Captain !  my  Captain !  rise  up  and  hear  the  bells; 
Rise  up — for  you  the  flag  is  flung — for  you  the  bugle  trills, 
For   you   bouquets   and   ribboned   wreaths — for   you   the 
shores  acrowding, 


Writers  of  the  Mid-  Century  and  After     289 

For  you  they  call,  the  swaying  mass,  their  eager  faces  turn- 
ing; 
Here  Captain  !  dear  father ! 
This  arm  beneath  your  head ! 

It  is  some  dream  that  on  the  deck 
You've  fallen  cold  and  dead. 

My  Captain  does  not  answer,  his  lips  are  pale  and  still, 
My  father  does  not  feel  my  arm,  he  has  no  pulse  nor  will. 
The  ship  is  anchored  safe  and  sound,  its  voyage  closed  and 

done, 
From  fearful  trip  the  victor  ship  comes  in  with  object  won; 
Exult  O  shores,  and  ring  O  bells ! 
But  I  with  mournful  tread. 

Walk  the  deck  my  Captain  lies, 
Fallen  cold  and  dead. 

To  THE  Man-of-War-Bird 

Thou  who  hast  slept  all  night  upon  the  storm, 

Waking  renewed  on  thy  prodigious  pinions 

(Burst  the  wild  storm  ?  above  it  thou  ascendedst, 

And  rested  on  the  sky,  thy  slave  that  cradled  thee). 

Now  a  blue  point,  far,  far  in  heaven  floating. 

As  to  the  light  emerging  here  on  deck  I  watch  thee 

(Myself  a  speck,  a  point  on  the  world's  floating  vast). 

Far,  far  at  sea. 

After  the  night's  fierce  drifts  have  strewn  the  shore  with 

wrecks, 
With  re-appearing  day  as  now  so  happy  and  serene, 
The  rosy  and  elastic  dawn,  the  flashing  sun. 
The  limpid  spread  of  air  cerulean, 
Thou  also  re-appearest. 

Thou  born  to  match  the  gale  (thou  art  all  wings). 
To  cope  with  heaven  and  earth  and  sea  and  hurricane, 
Thou  ship  of  air  that  never  furl'st  thy  sails. 
Days,  even  weeks,  untired  and  onward,  through  spaces, 
realms  gyrating. 


290  American  Literature 

At  dusk  that  look'st  on  Senegal,  at  morn  America, 
That  sport'st  amid  the  lightning-flash  and  thunder-cloud, 
In  them,  in  thy  experiences,  hadst  thou  my  soul, 
What  joys !  what  joys  were  thine ! 

14.  Richard  Henry  Stoddard  (1825-1903)  belonged  to  the 
New  York  group  of  writers  of  the  early  days.  Here  he  was 
for  a  long  time  engaged  in  editorial  work.  He  was  a  frequent 
contributor  to  the  leading  magazines  and  a  poet  of  great  talent. 

Burial  of  Lincoln 

Peace !    Let  the  long  procession  come. 
For  hkrk  ! — the  mournful,  muiffled  drum, 

The  trumpet's  wail  afar; 

And  see !  the  awful  car ! 

Peace !    Let  the  sad  procession  go, 
While  cannons  boom,  and  bells  toll  slow; 

And  go,  thou  sacred  car, 

Bearing  our  woe  afar ! 

Go,  darkly  borne,  from  State  to  State, 
Whose  loyal,  sorrowing  cities  wait 

To  honor,  all  they  can, 

The  dust  of  that  good  man ! 

Go,  grandly  borne,  with  such  a  train 
As  greatest  Kings  might  die  to  gain: 

The  just,  the  wise,  the  brave 

Attend  thee  to  the  grave ! 

And  you,  the  soldiers  of  our  wars, 
Bronzed  veterans,  grim  with  noble  scars. 

Salute  him  once  again. 

Your  late  commander, — slain! 

Yes,  let  your  tears  indignant  fall, 
But  leave  your  muskets  on  the  wall; 


Writers  of  the  Mid- Century  and  After     291 

Your  country  needs  you  now 
Beside  the  forge,  the  plow ! 


So  sweetly,  sadly,  sternly  goes 
The  fallen  to  his  last  repose, 

Beneath  no  mighty  dome, 

But  in  his  modest  home. 

The  churchyard  where  his  children  rest, 
The  quiet  spot  that  suits  him  best, 

There  shall  his  grave  be  made, 

And  there  his  bones  be  laid ! 

And  there  his  countrymen  shall  come, 
With  memory  proud,  with  pity  dumb, 

And  strangers,  far  and  near. 

For  many  and  many  a  year ! 

For  many  a  year  and  many  an  age, 
While  History  on  her  ample  page 

The  virtues  shall  enroll 

Of  that  paternal  soul ! 

15.  Julia  Ward  Howe  (1819-1910)  was  a  well-known  lec- 
turer and  reformer.  She  became  famous  through  her  war-song, 
the  Battle-Hymn  of  the  Republic ,  which  was  published  in  1861. 

Battle-Hymn  of  the  Republic 

Mine  eyes  have  seen  the  glory  of  the  coming  of  the  Lord: 
He  is  trampling  out  the  vintage  where  the  grapes  of  wrath 

are  stored; 
He  hath  loosed  the  fateful  lightning  of  his  terrible  swift 

sword; 
His  truth  is  marching  on. 

I  have  seen  Him  in  the  watch-fires  of  a  hundred  circling 
camps; 


292  American  Literature 

They  have  builded  Him  an  altar  in  the  evening  dews  and 

damps; 
I  can  read  His  righteous  sentence  by  the  dim  and  flaring 

lamps. 
His  day  is  marching  on. 

I  have  read  a  fiery  gospel,  writ  in  burnished  rows  of  steel: 
"As  ye  deal  with  my  contemners,  so  with  you  my  grace  shall 

deal; 
Let  the  Hero  bom  of  woman,  crush  the  serpent  with  his  heel, 
Since  God  is  marching  on." 

He  has  sounded  forth  the  trumpet  that  shall  never  call 

retreat; 
He  is  sifting  out  the  hearts  of  men  before  His  judgment-seat : 
Oh !  be  swift  my  soul,  to  answer  Him !  be  jubilant,  my  feet ! 
Our  God  is  marching  on. 

In  the  beauty  of  the  lilies  Christ  was  bom  across  the  sea, 
With  the  glory  in  His  bosom  that  transfigures  you  and  me : 
As  He  died  to  make  men  holy,  let  us  die  to  make  men  free, 
While  God  is  marching  on. 


i6.  John  Hay  (1838-1905),  statesman  and  diplomat,  was 
a  graduate  of  Brown  University.  He  rendered  valuable  ser- 
vices to  his  country  as  Ambassador  to  England  and  as  Secretary 
of  State.  His  Pike  County  Ballads  gave  him  wide  popularity 
as  a  poet.    The  following  poem  is  illustrative. 


Jim  Bludso,  of  the  "Prairie  Belle" 

(From  Pike  County  Ballads) 

Wall,  no  !  I  can't  tell  whar  he  lives. 
Because  he  don't  live,  you  see; 

Leastways,  he's  got  out  of  the  habit 
Of  livin'  like  you  and  me. 


IVriters  of  the  Mid-  Century  and  After     293 

Whar  have  you  been  for  the  last  three  year 

That  you  haven't  heard  folks  tell 
How  Jimmy  Bludso  passed  in  his  checks 

The  night  of  the  Prairie  Belle  ? 

He  weren't  no  saint, — them  engineers 

Is  all  pretty  much  ahke, — 
One  wife  in  Natchez-under-the-Hill 

And  another  one  here,  in  Pike; 
A  keerless  man  in  his  talk  was  Jim, 

And  an  awkward  hand  in  a  row. 
But  he  never  flunked,  and  he  never  lied, — 

I  reckon  he  never  knowed  how. 

And  this  was  all  the  religion  he  had, — 

To  treat  his  engine  well; 
Never  be  passed  on  the  river; 

To  mind  the  pilot's  bell; 
And  if  ever  the  Prairie  Belle  took  fire, — 

A  thousand  times  he  swore, 
He'd  hold  her  nozzle  agin  the  bank 

Till  the  last  soul  got  ashore. 

All  boats  has  their  day  on  the  Mississip, 

And  her  day  come  at  last, — 
The  Movastar  was  a  better  boat, 

But  the  Belle  she  wouldn't  be  passed. 
And  so  she  come  tearin'  along  that  night — 

The  oldest  craft  on  the  line — 
With  a  nigger  squat  on  her  safety-valve, 

And  her  furnace  crammed,  rosin  and  pine. 

The  fire  bust  out  as  she  clared  the  bar, 

And  burnt  a  hole  in  the  night. 
And  quick  as  a  flash  she  turned,  and  made 

For  that  wilier-bank  on  the  right. 
There  was  runnin'  and  cursin',  but  Jim  yelled  out, 

Over  all  the  infernal  roar : 


294  American  Literature 

"I'll  hold  her  nozzle  agin  the  bank 
Till  the  last  galoot's  ashore." 

Through  the  hot,  black  breath  of  the  burnin'  boat 

Jim  Bludso's  voice  was  heard, 
And  they  all  had  trust  in  his  cussedness, 

And  knowed  he  would  keep  his  word. 
And,  sure's  you're  born,  they  all  got  off 

Afore  the  smokestacks  fell, — 
And  Bludso's  ghost  went  up  alone 

In  the  smoke  of  the  Prairie  Belle, 

He  weren't  no  saint, — but  at  jedgment 

I'd  run  my  chance  with  Jim, 
'Longside  of  some  pious  gentlemen 

That  wouldn't  shook  hands  with  him. 
He  seen  his  duty,  a  dead-sure  thing, — 

And  went  for  it  thar  and  then; 
And  Christ  ain't  a-goin'  to  be  too  hard 

On  a  man  that  died  for  men. 


BIBLIOGRAPHY 

I.     For  Further  Illustration 

Dickinson,  E.:  Morning. 

A  Book.     With  Flowers. 

Called  Back. 
Hay,  John:  Pike  County  Ballads. 
Lanier,  S.:  Hymns  of  the  Marshes, 

The  Symphony, 

Corn. 
Lazarus,  E. :  The  Banner  of  the  Jew, 

The  New  Ezekiel. 
Scudder,  H.  E.:  American  Poetry. 
Sill,  E.  R.:  Before  Sunrise  in  Winter, 
Stoddard,  R.  H. :  Wind  and  Rain. 

The  Country  Life. 

The  Flight  of  Youth. 
Weber,  W.  F.:  Selections  from  the  Southern   Poets.     (Macmillan 

Pocket  Classics.) 


Writers  of  the  Mid-  Century  and  After     295 

Whitman,  W. :  When  Lilacs  Last  in  the  Dooryard  Bloomed, 
Out  of  the  Cradle  Endlessly  Rocking. 
Crossing  Brooklyn  Ferry. 

II.     For  Collateral  Reading 

Gosse,  E.:  Walt  Whitman.     (In  Critical  Kit-Cats.) 

Link,  S.  A.:  Pioneers  of  Southern  Literature. 

Mims,  E.:  Life  of  Sidney  Lanier. 

Pickett,  La  Salle  Corbett:  Literary  Hearthstones  of  Dixie. 


CHAPTER  V 

LATER  AND  PRESENT-DAY  WRITERS 
I.     Prose — Fiction 

The  death  of  the  last  of  the  great  men  who  had  made 
New  England — and  through  New  England,  America — a 
factor  to  be  reckoned  with  in  the  Kterary  world,  ushers  in 
the  day  of  our  literary  expansion.  Though  Mr.  Brander 
Matthews  tells  us  that  New  York  City  has  once  more 
become  the  literary  centre  of  America,  it  is  in  no  sense  the 
Kterary  centre  as  it  was  in  the  days  of  Irving,  or  as  Cam- 
bridge and  Boston  were  in  the  days  of  Longfellow  and 
Lowell.  To-day  there  are  small  local  hterary  centres  all 
over  the  United  States.  We  find  them  scattered  through 
the  Middle  West  from  one  university  town  to  another; 
from  the  Pacific  coast  to  the  Lake  region;  from  the  lakes 
to  the  Atlantic  coast. 

The  following  selection  of  representative  writers  shows 
how  impossible  it  would  be  for  any  one  section  to  hold  a 
monopoly  of  our  literary  output  to-day.  The  choice  is 
typical  but  by  no  means  exhaustive. 

I.  S.  Weir  Mitchell  (1830-1914)  was  a  physician  of  Phila- 
delphia who  became  well  known  for  his  novels,  the  best  of 
which  is  Hugh  Wynne.  "This,"  declares  Professor  Barrett 
Wendell,  "is  so  accurate  and  vivid  a  fiction  as  to  have  the 
value  of  an  authority." 

Hugh's  School  Days. 

(From  Hugh  Wynne:  Free  Quaker ^  Chapter  II) 

The  day  I  went  to  school  for  the  first  time  is  very  clear 
in  my  memory.     I  can  see  myself,  a  stout  little  fellow 

296 


Later  and  Present- Day  Writers  297 

about  eight  years  old,  clad  in  gray  homespun,  with  breeches^ 
low  shoes,  and  a  low,  flat  beaver  hat.  I  can  hear  my  mother 
say,  ^'Here  are  two  big  apples  for  thy  master,"  it  being 
the  custom  so  to  propitiate  pedagogues.  Often  afterward 
I  took  eggs  in  a  little  basket,  or  flowers,  and  others  did  the 
like. 

*'Now  run!  run!"  she  cried,  *'and  be  a  good  boy;  run, 
or  thou  wilt  be  late."  And  she  clapped  her  hands  as  I 
sped  away,  now  and  then  looking  back  over  my  shoulder. 

I  remember  as  well  my  return  home  to  this  solid  house, 
this  first  day  of  my  going  to  school.  One  is  apt  to  as- 
sociate events  with  persons,  and  my  mother  stood  leaning 
on  the  half-door  as  I  came  running  back.  She  was  some 
little  reassured  to  see  me  smiling,  for,  to  tell  the  truth,  I 
had  been  mightily  scared  at  my  new  venture.  .  .  . 

As  I  came  she  set  those  large,  childlike  eyes  on  me,  and 
opening  the  lower  half-door,  cried  out: 

^'I  could  scarce  wait  for  thee  !  I  wish  I  could  have  gone 
with  thee,  Hugh;  and  was  it  dreadful?  Come,  let  us  see 
thy  little  book.  And  did  they  praise  thy  reading?  Didst 
thou  tell  them  I  taught  thee?  There  are  girls,  I  hear," 
and  so  on — a  way  she  had  of  asking  many  questions  with- 
out waiting  for  a  reply. 

As  we  chatted  we  passed  through  the  hall,  where  tall 
mahogany  chairs  stood  dark  against  the  white-washed 
walls,  such  as  were  in  all  the  rooms.  Joyous  at  escape 
from  school,  and  its  confinement  of  three  long,  weary  hours^ 
from  eight  to  eleven,  I  dropped  my  mother's  hand,  and, 
running  a  little,  sKd  down  the  long  entry  over  the  thinly 
sanded  floor,  and  then  slipping,  came  down  with  a  rueful 
countenance,  as  nature,  foreseeing  results,  meant  that  a 
boy  should  descend  when  his  legs  fail  him.  My  mother 
sat  down  on  a  settle,  and  spread  out  both  palms  toward 
me,  laughing,  and  crying  out: 

^'So  near  are  joy  and  grief,  my  friends,  in  this  world  of 
sorrow." 

This  was  said  so  exactly  with  the  voice  and  manner  of 
a  famous  preacher  of  our  Meeting  that  even  I,  a  lad  then 
of  only  eight  years,  recognised  the  imitation.     Indeed,  she 


£98  American  Literature 

was  wonderful  at  this  trick  of  mimicry,  a  thing  most  odious 
to  Friends.  As  I  smiled,  hearing  her,  I  was  aware  of  my 
father  in  the  open  doorway  of  the  sitting-room,  tall,  strong, 
with  much  iron-gray  hair.  Within  I  saw  several  Friends, 
large  rosy  men  in  drab,  with  horn  buttons  and  straight 
collars,  their  stout  legs  clad  in  dark  silk  hose,  without 
the  paste  or  silver  buckles  then  in  use.  All  wore  broad- 
brimmed,  low  beavers,  and  their  gold-headed  canes  rested 
between  their  knees. 

My  father  said  to  me,  in  his  sharp  way,  ^'Take  thy  noise 
out  into  the  orchard.  The  child  disturbs  us,  wife.  Thou 
shouldst  know  better.  A  committee  of  overseers  is  with 
me."  He  disHked  the  name  Marie,  and  was  never  heard 
to  use  it,  nor  even  its  Enghsh  equivalent. 

Upon  this  the  dear  lady  murmured,  "Let  us  fly,  Hugh," 
and  she  ran  on  tiptoe  along  the  hall  with  me,  while  my 
father  closed  the  door.  "Come,"  she  added,  "and  see  the 
floor.  I  am  proud  of  it.  We  have  friends  to  eat  dinner 
with  us  at  two."  ... 

And  thus  began  my  life  at  school,  to  which  I  went  twice 
a  day,  my  father  not  approving  of  the  plan  of  three  ses- 
sions a  day,  which  was  common,  nor,  for  some  reason,  I 
know  not  what,  of  schools  kept  by  Friends.  So  it  was 
that  I  set  out  before  eight,  and  went  again  from  two  to 
four.  .  .  . 

I  have  observed  that  teachers  are  often  eccentric,  and 
surely  David  Dove  was  no  exception,  nor  do  I  now  know 
why  so  odd  a  person  was  chosen  by  many  for  the  care 
of  youth.  I  fancy  my  mother  had  to  do  with  the  choice 
in  my  case,  and  was  influenced  by  the  fact  that  Dove 
rarely  used  the  birch,  but  had  a  queer  fancy  for  setting 
culprits  on  a  stool,  with  the  birch  switch  stuck  in  the  back 
of  the  jacket,  so  as  to  stand  up  behind  the  head.  I  hated 
this,  and  would  rather  have  been  birched  secundum  artem 
than  to  have  seen  the  girls  giggling  at  me.  I  changed  my 
opinion  later.  .  .  . 

Our  school  life  with  Dove  ended  after  four  years  in 
an  odd  fashion.  I  was  then  about  twelve,  and  had  become 
a  vigorous,  daring  boy,  with,  as  it  now  seems  to  me,  some- 


Later  and  Present- Day  Writers  291> 

thing  of  the  fortunate  gaiety  of  my  mother.  Other  lads 
thought  it  singular  that  in  peril  I  became  strangely  viva- 
cious; but  underneath  I  had  a  share  of  the  relentless  firm- 
ness of  my  father,  and  of  his  vast  dislike  of  failure,  and  of 
his  love  of  truth.  I  have  often  thought  that  the  father  in 
me  saved  me  from  the  consequences  of  so  much  of  my 
mother's  gentler  nature  as  might  have  done. me  harm  in 
the  rude  conflicts  of  life. 

David  Dove,  among  other  odd  ways,  devised  a  plan  for 
punishing  the  unpunctual  which  had  considerable  success. 
One  day,  when  I  had  far  overstayed  the  hour  of  eight,  by 
reason  of  having  climbed  into  Friend  Pemberton's  gardens^ 
where  I  was  tempted  by  many  green  apples,  I  was  met 
by  four  older  boys.  One  had  a  lantern,  which,  with  much 
laughter,  he  tied  about  my  neck,  and  one,  marching  be- 
fore, rang  a  bell.  I  had  seen  this  queer  punishment  fall 
on  others,  and  certainly  the  amusement  shown  by  people 
in  the  streets  would  not  have  hurt  me  compared  with  the 
advantage  of  pockets  full  of  apples,  had  I  not  of  a  sudden 
seen  my  father,  who  usually  breakfasted  at  six,  and  was 
at  his  warehouse  by  seven.  He  looked  at  me  composedly, 
but  went  past  us  saying  nothing. 

On  my  return  about  eleven,  he  unluckily  met  me  in  the 
garden,  for  I  had  gone  the  back  way  in  order  to  hide  my 
apples.  I  had  an  unpleasant  half-hour,  despite  my  mother's 
tears,  and  was  sent  at  once  to  confess  to  Friend  James 
Pemberton.  The  good  man  said  I  was  a  naughty  boy, 
but  must  come  later  when  the  apples  were  red  ripe,  and  I 
should  take  all  I  wanted,  and  I  might  fetch  with  me  an- 
other boy,  or  even  two.  I  never  forgot  this,  and  did  him 
some  good  turns  in  after-years,  and  right  gladly  too. 

In  my  own  mind  I  associated  David  Dove  with  this 
painful  interview  with  my  father.  I  disliked  him  the 
more  because,  when  the  procession  entered  the  school,  a 
little  girl  for  whom  Warder  and  I  had  a  boy  friendship,  in 
place  of  laughing,  as  did  the  rest,  for  some  reason  began 
to  cry.  This  angered  the  master,  who  had  the  lack  of  self- 
control  often  seen  in  eccentric  people.  He  asked  why  she 
cried,  and  on  her  sobbing  out  that  it  was  because  she  was 


300  American  Literature 

sorry  for  me,  he  bade  her  take  off  her  stays.  These  being 
stiff,  and  worn  outside  the  gown,  would  have  made  the 
punishment  of  the  birch  on  the  shoulders  of  trifling  mo- 
ment. 

As  it  was  usual  to  whip  girls  at  school,  the  little  maid 
said  nothing,  but  did  as  she  was  bid,  taking  a  sharp  birch- 
ing without  a  cry.  Meanwhile  I  sat  with  my  head  in  my 
hands,  and  my  fingers  in  my  ears  lest  I  should  hear  her 
Aveeping.  After  school  that  evening,  when  all  but  Warder 
and  I  had  wandered  home,  I  wrote  on  the  outside  wall  of  the 
school-house  with  chalk,  "David  Dove  Is  A  Cruel  Beast," 
and  went  away  somewhat  better  contented. 

Now,  with  all  his  seeming  dislike  to  use  the  rod,  David 
had  turns  of  severity,  and  then  he  was  far  more  brutal 
than  any  man  I  have  ever  known.  Therefore  it  did  not 
surprise  us  next  morning  that  the  earher  scholars  were 
looking  with  wonder  and  alarm  at  the  sentence  on  the  wall, 
when  Dove,  appearing  behind  us,  ordered  us  to  enter  at 
once. 

Going  to  his  desk,  he  put  on  his  spectacles,  which  then 
were  worn  astride  of  the  nose.  In  a  minute  he  set  on  be- 
low them  a  second  pair,  and  this  we  knew  to  be  a  signal 
of  coming  violence.  Then  he  stood  up,  and  asked  who  had 
written  the  opprobrious  epithet  on  the  wall.  As  no  one 
replied,  he  asked  several  in  turn,  but  luckily  chose  the 
girls,  thinking,  perhaps,  that  they  would  weakly  betray 
the  sinner.  Soon  he  lost  patience,  and  cried  out  he  would 
give  a  king's  pound  to  know. 

When  he  had  said  this  over  and  over,  I  began  to  reflect 
that,  if  he  had  any  real  idea  of  doing  as  he  promised,  a 
pound  was  a  great  sum,  and  to  consider  what  might  be 
done  with  it  in  the  way  of  marbles  of  Amsterdam,  tops, 
and  of  certain  much-desired  books,  for  now  this  latter 
temptation  was  upon  me,  as  it  has  been  ever  since.  As  I 
sat,  and  Dove  thundered,  I  remembered  how,  when  one 
Stacy,  with  an  oath,  assured  my  father  that  his  word  was 
as  good  as  his  bond,  my  parent  said  dryly  that  this  equality 
left  him  free  to  choose,  and  he  would  prefer  his  bond.  I 
saw  no  way  to  what  was  for  me  the  mysterious  security  of 


Later  and  Present- Day  Writers  301 

a  bond,  but  I  did  conceive  of  some  need  to  stiffen  the 
promise  Dove  had  made  before  I  faced  the  penalty. 

Upon  this  I  held  up  a  hand,  and  the  master  cried,  "What 
is  it?" 

I  said,  "Master,  if  a  boy  should  tell  thee  wouldst  thou 
surely  give  a  pound  ?  " 

At  this  a  lad  called  "Shame !"  thinking  I  was  a  telltale. 

When  Dove  called  silence  and  renewed  his  pledge,  I, 
overbold,  said,  "Master,  I  did  it,  and  now  wilt  thou  please 
to  give  me  a  pound — a  king's  pound?" 

"I  will  give  thee  a  pounding!"  he  roared;  and  upon  this 
came  down  from  his  raised  form,  and  gave  me  a  beating  so 
terrible  and  cruel  that  at  last  the  girls  cried  aloud,  and  he 
let  me  drop  on  the  floor,  sore  and  angry.  I  lay  still  awhile, 
and  then  went  to  my  seat.  As  I  bent  over  my  desk,  it  was 
rather  the  sense  that  I  had  been  wronged,  than  the  pain  of 
the  blows,  which  troubled  me. 

After  school,  refusing  speech  to  any,  I  walked  home, 
and  ministered  to  my  poor  little  bruised  body  as  I  best 
could.  Now  this  being  a  Saturday,  and  therefore  a  half- 
holiday,  I  ate  at  two  with  my  father  and  mother. 

Presently  my  father,  detecting  my  uneasy  movements, 
said,  "Hast  thou  been  birched  to-day,  and  for  what  bad- 
ness?" 

Upon  this  my  mother  said  softly,  "What  is  it,  my  son? 
Have  no  fear."  And  this  gentleness  being  too  much  for 
me,  I  fell  to  tears,  and  blurted  out  all  my  Httle  tragedy. 

As  I  ended,  my  father  rose,  very  angry,  and  cried  out, 
"Come  this  way!"  But  my  mother  caught  me,  saying, 
"No!  no!  Look,  John!  see  his  poor  neck  and  his  wrist! 
What  a  brute !  I  tell  thee,  thou  shalt  not !  it  were  a  sin. 
Leave  him  to  me,"  and  she  thrust  me  behind  her  as  if  for 
safety. 

To  my  surprise,  he  said,  "As  thou  wilt,"  and  my  mother 
hurried  me  away.  We  had  a  grave,  sweet  talk,  and  there 
it  ended  for  a  time.  I  learned  that,  after  all,  the  woman's 
was  the  stronger  will.  I  was  put  to  bed  and  declared  to 
have  a  fever,  and  given  sulphur  and  treacle,  and  kept  out 
of  the  paternal  paths  for  a  mournful  day  of  enforced  rest. 


302  American  Literature 

On  the  Monday  following  I  went  to  school  as  usual, 
but  not  without  fear  of  Dove.  When  we  were  all  busy, 
about  ten  o'clock,  I  was  amazed  to  hear  my  father's  voice. 
He  stood  before  the  desk,  and  addressed  Master  Dove  in 
a  loud  voice,  meaning,  I  suppose,  to  be  heard  by  all  of  us. 

''David  Dove,"  he  said,  ''my  son  hath  been  guilty  of 
disrespect  to  thee,  and  to  thy  office.  I  do  not  say  he  has 
lied,  for  it  is  my  beUef  that  thou  art  truly  an  unjust  and 
cruel  beast.  As  for  his  sin,  he  has  suffered  enough  [I  felt 
glad  of  this  final  opinion] ;  but  a  bargain  was  made.  He, 
on  his  part,  for  a  consideration  of  one  pound  sterling,  was 
to  tell  thee  who  wrote  certain  words.  He  has  paid  thee 
and  thou  hast  taken  interest  out  of  his  skin.  Indeed, 
Friend  Shylock,  I  think  he  weighs  less  by  a  pound.  Thou 
wilt  give  him  his  pound,  Master  Da\dd." 

Upon  this  a  Httle  maid  near  by  smiled  at  me,  and  Warder 
punched  me  in  the  ribs.  Master  Dove  was  silent  a  mo- 
ment, and  then  answered  that  there  was  no  law  to  make 
him  pay,  and  that  he  had  spoken  Hghtly,  as  one  might  say, 
"I  would  give  this  or  that  to  know."  But  my  father  re- 
plied at  once: 

"The  boy  trusted  thee,  and  was  as  good  as  his  word. 
I  advise  thee  to  pay.  As  thou  art  Master  to  punish  boys, 
so  will  I,  David,  use  thy  birch  on  thee  at  need,  and  trust 
to  the  great  Master  to  reckon  with  me  if  I  am  wrong." 

All  this  he  said  so  fiercely  that  I  trembled  with  joy, 
and  hoped  that  Dove  would  deny  him ;  but,  in  place  of  this, 
he  muttered  something  about  Meeting  and  Friends,  and 
meanwhile  searched  his  pockets  and  brought  out  a  guinea. 
This  my  father  dropped  into  his  breeches  pocket,  saying, 
"The  shilling  will  be  for  interest"  (a  guinea  being  a  shil- 
ling over  a  king's  pound).  After  this,  turning  to  me,  he 
said,  "Come  with  me,  Hugh,"  and  went  out  of  the  school- 
house,  I  following  after,  very  well  pleased,  and  thinking 
of  my  guinea, 

2.  William  Dean  Howells  (1837-  )  is  generally  con- 
sidered the  foremost  American  novelist  of  our  generation.  He 
was  born  in  Ohio,  never  went  to  college,  but  got  valuable  train- 


Later  and  Present- Day  Writers  303 

ing  in  various  newspaper  offices  early  in  life.  For  many  years 
he  was  editor  of  the  Atlantic  Monthly;  at  present  he  is  connected 
editorially  with  Harper's  Magazine.  He  has  written  many  novels, 
sketches,  and  farces.  Of  his  novels,  The  Rise  of  Silas  Lapham  is 
the  strongest.  Here  he  gives  us  a  picture  of  the  self-made  Amer- 
ican who  has  been  such  a  familiar  figure  among  us  in  these 
latter  days.  Howells  stands  for  realism  in  fiction  and  has  a 
large  following  among  the  younger  waiters.  He  is  justly  called 
the  dean  of  American  letters. 


Some  Islands  of  the  Lagoons 

(From  Venetian  Life,  Chapter  XII) 

Nothing  can  be  fairer  to  the  eye  than  these  "summer 
isles  of  Eden"  lying  all  about  Venice,  far  and  near.  The 
water  forever  trembles  and  changes  with  every  change  of 
light,  from  one  rainbow  glory  to  another,  as  with  the 
restless  hues  of  an  opal;  and  even  when  the  splendid  tides 
recede,  and  go  down  with  the  sea,  they  leave  a  heritage 
of  beauty  to  the  empurpled  mud  of  the  shallows,  all  strewn 
with  green,  disheveled  sea-weed.  The  lagoons  have  almost 
as  wide  a  bound  as  your  vision.  On  the  east  and  west 
you  can  see  their  borders  of  sea-shore  and  mainland;  but 
looking  north  and  south,  there  seems  no  end  to  the  charm 
of  their  vast,  smooth,  all-but-melancholy  expanses.  Beyond 
their  southern  limit  rise  the  blue  Euganean  Hills,  where 
Petrarch  died;  on  the  north  loom  the  Alps,  white  with 
snow.  Potting  the  stretches  of  lagoon  in  every  direction 
lie  the  islands — now  piles  of  airy  architecture  that  the 
water  seems  to  float  under  and  bear  upon  its  breast,  now 

"  Sunny  spots  of  greenery," 

with  the  bell-towers  of  demolished  cloisters  shadowily 
showing  above  their  trees; — for  in  the  days  of  the  Republic 
nearly  every  one  of  the  islands  had  its  monastery  and  its 
church.  At  present  the  greater  number  have  been  for- 
tified by  the  Austrians,  whose  sentinel  paces  the  once- 
peaceful  shores  and  challenges  all  passers  with  his  sharp 


304  American  Literature 

*^ Haiti  Wer  daT^  and  warns  them  not  to  approach  too 
closely.  Other  islands  have  been  devoted  to  different 
utilitarian  purposes,  and  few  are  able  to  keep  their  distant 
promises  of  loveliness.  One  of  the  more  faithful  is  the 
island  of  San  Clemente,  on  which  the  old  convent  church 
is  yet  standing,  empty  and  forl9rn  within,  but  without 
all  draped  in  glossy  ivy.  .  .  . 

THE  GHETTO  AND  THE  JEWS  OF  VENICE 
(Chapter  XIV) 

As  I  think  it  extremely  questionable  whether  I  could  get 
through  a  chapter  on  this  subject  without  some  feeble 
pleasantry  about  Shylock,  and  whether,  if  I  did,  the  reader 
would  be  at  all  satisfied  that  I  had  treated  the  matter  fully 
and  fairly,  I  say  at  the  beginning  that  Shylock  is  dead; 
that  if  he  lived,  Antonio  would  hardly  spit  upon  his  gor- 
geous pantaloons  or  his  Parisian  coat,  as  he  met  him  on 
the  Rial  to;  that  he  would  far  rather  call  out  to  him,  *'Cid 
Shylock!  Bon  dil  Go  piaser  vederla^^;^  that  if  Shylock 
by  any  chance  entrapped  Antonio  into  a  foolish  promise 
to  pay  him  a  pound  of  his  flesh  on  certain  conditions,  the 
honest  commissary  of  police  before  whom  they  brought 
their  affair  would  dismiss  them  both  to  the  madhouse  at 
San  Servolo.  In  a  word,  the  present  social  relations  of 
Jew  and  Christian  in  this  city  render  the  ''Merchant  of 
Venice"  quite  impossible;  and  the  reader,  though  he  will 
find  the  Ghetto  sufficiently  noisome  and  dirty,  will  not  find 
an  oppressed  people  there,  nor  be  edified  by  any  of  those 
insults  or  beatings  which  it  was  once  a  large  share  of 
Christian  duty  to  inflict  upon  the  enemies  of  our  faith. 
The  Catholic  Venetian  certainly  understands  that  his 
Jewish  fellow-citizen  is  destined  to  some  very  unpleasant 
experiences  in  the  next  world,  but  Corpo  di  Baccol  that  is 
no  reason  why  he  should  not  be  friends  with  him  in  this. 
He  meets  him  daily  on  exchange  and  at  the  Casino,  and  he 
partakes  of  the  hospitality  of  his  conversazioni.  If  he 
still  despises  him — and  I  think  he  does,  a  little — he  keeps  his 

*"  Shylock,  old  fellow,  good-day.     Glad  to  see  you." 


Later  and  Present- Day  Writers  305 

contempt  to  himself,  for  the  Jew  is  gathering  into  his  own 
hands  a  great  part  of  the  trade  of  the  city,  and  has  the 
power  that  belongs  to  wealth.  He  is  educated,  liberal, 
and  enlightened,  and  the  last  great  name  in  Venetian  lit- 
erature is  that  of  the  Jewish  historian  of  the  RepubHc, 
Romanin.  The  Jew's  poHtical  sympathies  are  invariably 
patriotic,  and  he  calls  himself,  not  Ebreo,  but  Veneziano. 
He  lives,  when  rich,  in  a  palace  or  a  fine  house  on  the 
Grand  Canal,  and  he  furnishes  and  lets  many  others  (I 
must  say  at  rates  which  savor  of  the  loan  secured  by  the 
pound  of  flesh)  in  which  he  does  not  live.  The  famous 
and  beautiful  Ca'  Doro  now  belongs  to  a  Jewish  family; 
and  an  Israehte,  the  most  distinguished  physician  in  Venice, 
occupies  the  appartamento  signorile  in  the  palace  of  the 
famous  Cardinal  Bembo.  The  Jew  is  a  physician,  a  banker, 
a  manufacturer,  a  merchant;  and  he  makes  himself  re- 
spected for  his  intelligence  and  his  probity, — which  per- 
haps does  not  infringe  more  than  that  of  ItaKan  Catholics. 
He  dresses  well, — with  that  indefinable  difference,  however, 
which  distinguishes  him  in  everything  from  a  Christian, 
— and  his  wife  and  daughter  are  fashionable  and  styHsh. 
They  are  sometimes,  also,  very  pretty;  and  I  have  seen  one 
Jewish  lady  who  might  have  stepped  out  of  the  sacred 
page,  down  from  the  patriarchal  age,  and  been  known  for 
Rebecca,  with  her  oriental  grace,  and  delicate,  sensitive, 
high-bred  look  and  bearing — no  more  western  and  modern 
than  a  lily  of  Palestine. 

The  following  writers'  are  representative  of  our  litera- 
ture in  the  South, — the  old  South,  with  its  plantation  life, 
its  slaves,  and  its  Creoles:  Francis  Hopkinson  Smith,  George 
Washington  Cable,  Joel  Chandler  Harris,  Thomas  Nelson 
Page,  and  Ruth  McEnery  Stuart. 

3.  Francis  Hopkinson  Smith  (1838-  )  is  a  native  of 
Baltimore.  He  is  an  artist  and  a  mechanical  engineer,  as  well 
as  an  author  who  ranks  with  the  best  of  our  fiction  writers  from 
the  South  to-day.     His  Colonel  Carter  of  Carter sville  stands  a 


306  Ainerican  Literature 

fair  chance  of  becoming  a  classic;  his  short  stories  are  fascinat- 
ing studies  in  character  types. 

MacWhirter's  Fireplace 
(From  The  Wood  Fire  in  No.  3) 

Sandy  MacWhirter  would  have  an  open  fire.  He  had 
been  brought  up  on  blazing  logs  and  warm  hearths,  and 
could  not  be  happy  without  them.  .  .  . 

There  was  no  chimney  in  No.  3  when  he  moved  in — 
no  place  really  to  put  one,  unless  he  knocked  a  hole  in  the 
roof  .  .  .  nor  was  there  any  way  of  supporting  the  neces- 
sary brickwork.  .  .  .  But  trifling  obstacles  like  these  never 
daunted  MacWhirter.  Lonnegan,  a  Beaux  Arts  man,  who 
built  the  big  Opera  House,  and  who  also  hungered  for 
blazing  logs,  solved  the  difficulty.  .  .  . 

It  was  a  great  day  when  Mac's  fireplace  was  completed. 
Everybody  crowded  in  to  see  it.  .  .  . 

And  the  friends  that  this  old  fire  had;  and  the  way  the 
men  loved  it  despite  the  Uberties  they  tried  to  take  with  it ! 
And  they  did,  at  first,  take  liberties,  and  of  the  most  ex- 
asperating kind  to  any  well-intentioned,  law-abiding,  and 
knowledgeable  wood  fire.  Boggs,  the  animal  painter,  whose 
studio  lay  immediately  beneath  MacWhirter's,  was  never, 
at  first,  satisfied  until  he  had  punched  it  black  in  the  face; 
Wharton,  who  occupied  No.  4,  across  the  hall,  would  insist 
that  each  log  should  be  on  its  head  and  the  kindling  grouped 
about  it;  while  Pitkin,  the  sculptor,  who  occupied  the  base- 
ment because  of  his  dirty  clay  and  big  chunks  of  marble, 
was  miserable  until  he  had  jammed  the  back-log  so  tight 
against  the  besmoked  chimney  that  not  a  breath  of  air 
could  get  between  it  and  the  blackened  bricks. 

But  none  of  these  well-meant  but  inexperienced  attacks 
ever  daunted  the  spirit  of  this  fire.  It  would  splutter  a 
moment  with  ill-concealed  indignation,  threatening  a  dozen 
times  to*  go  out  in  smoke,  and  then,  all  of  a  sudden  a 
little  bubble  of  laughing  flame  would  break  out  under  one 
end  of  a  log,  and  then  another,  and  away  it  would  go  roar- 
ing up  the  chimney  in  a  very  ecstasy  of  delight. 

Now  and  then  it  would  talk  back;  I  have  heard  it  many 


Later  and  Present- Day  Writers  307 

a  time,  when  Mac  and  I  would  be  sitting  alone  before  it 
listening  to  its  chatter. 

''Take  a  seat,"  it  would  crackle,  "right  in  front  where  I 
can  warm  you.  Sit,  too,  where  you  can  look  into  my  face 
and  see  how  ruddy  and  joyous  it  is.  I'll  not  bore  you;  I 
never  bored  anybody — never  in  all  my  life.  I  am  an  end- 
less series  of  surprises,  and  I  am  never  twice  alike.  I  can 
sparkle  with  merriment,  or  glow  with  humor,  or  roar  with 
laughter,  dependent  on  your  mood,  or  upon  mine.  Or  I 
can  smoulder  away  all  by  myself,  crooning  a  low  song  of 
the  woods — the  song  your  mother  loved,  your  cradle  song 
— so  full  of  content  that  it  will  soothe  you  into  forgetful- 
ness.  When  at  last  I  creep  under  my  gray  blanket  of 
ashes  and  shut  my  eyes,  you,  too,  will  want  to  sleep — you 
and  I,  old  friends  now  with  our  thousand  memories." 

Only  MacWhirter  really  understood  its  many  moods. 
*' Alexander  MacWhirter,  Room  No.  3,"  the  signboard 
read  in  the  hall  below — and  only  MacWhirter  could  satisfy 
its  wants;  and  so,  after  the  first  few  months,  no  one  dared 
touch  it  but  our  host,  whose  shghtest  nudge  with  the  tongs 
was  sufficient  to  kindle  it  into  renewed  activity. 

It  was  not  long  after  this  that  a  certain  sense  of  owner- 
ship permeated  the  coterie.  They  yielded  the  chimney 
and  its  mechanical  contrivances  to  MacWhirter  and 
Lonnegan,  but  the  blaze  and  its  generous  warmth  belonged 
to  them  as  much  as  to  Mac.  Soon  chairs  were  sent  up 
from  the  several  studios,  each  member  of  the  half-circle 
furnishing  his  own — the  most  comfortable  he  owned. 
Then  the  mug  followed,  and  the  pipe-racks,  and  soon 
Sandy  MacWhirter's  wood  fire  in  No.  3  became  the  one 
spot  in  the  building  that  we  all  loved  and  longed  for. 

And  Mac  was  exactly  fashioned  for  High  Priest  of  just 
such  a  Temple  of  Jolhty:  Merry-eyed,  round-faced,  with 
one  and  a  quarter,  perhaps  one  and  a  half,  of  a  chin  tucked 
under  his  old  one — a  chin  though  that  came  from^  laughter, 
not  from  laziness;  broad-shouldered,  deep-chested,  hearty 
in  his  voice  and  words,  with  the  faintest  trace — just  a 
trace,  it  was  so  slight — of  his  mother- tongue  in  his  speech; 
whole-souled,  spontaneous,  unselfish,  ready  to  praise  and 


308  American  Literature 

never  to  criticise,  brimming  with  anecdotes  and  adventures 
of  forty  years  of  experience  ...  he  had  all  the  warmth 
of  his  blazing  logs  in  his  grasp  and  all  the  snap  of  their 
coals  in  his  eyes, 

*'By  the  Gods,  but  I'm  glad  to  see  you!"  was  his  in- 
variable greeting.  "Draw  up  !  draw  up  !  Go  get  a  pipe — 
the  tobacco  is  in  the  yellow  jar." 

This  was  when  Mac  was  alone  or  when  no  one  had  the 
floor,  and  the  shuttlecock  of  general  conversation  was  being 
battledored  about. 

If,  however,  Mac  or  any  of  his  guests  had  the  floor, 
and  was  giving  his  experience  at  home  or  abroad,  or  was 
reaching  the  cHmax  of  some  tale,  it  made  no  difference 
who  entered  no  one  took  any  more  notice  of  him  than  of  a 
servant  who  had  brought  in  an  extra  log,  the  lost  art  of 
Hstening  still  being  in  vogue  in  those  days  and  much  re- 
spected by  the  occupants  of  the  chairs — by  all  except 
Boggs,  who  would  always  break  into  the  conversation  irre- 
spective of  restrictions  or  traditions.  .  .  . 

4.  George  Washington  Cable  (1844-  )  is  a  native  of 
New  Orleans  where  he  has  spent  most  of  his  life,  though  he 
now  lives  in  the  North.  He  has  won  distinction  in  the  literary 
world  through  his  Creole  stories,  which  are  unique  in  the  realm 
of  American  letters.    He  also  ranks  high  as  a  poet. 

Cafe  des  Exiles 

(From  Old  Creole  Days) 

An  antiquated  story-and-a-half  Creole  cottage  sitting 
right  down  on  the  banquette,  as  do  the  Choctaw  squaws 
who  sell  bay  and  sassafras  and  life-everlasting,  with  a  high, 
close  board-fence  shutting  out  of  view  the  diminutive 
garden  on  the  southern  side.  An  ancient  willow  droops 
over  the  roof  of  round  tiles,  and  partly  hides  the  discolored 
stucco,  which  keeps  dropping  off  into  the  garden  as  though 
the  old  cafe  was  stripping  for  the  plunge  into  obUvion — 
disrobing  for  its  execution.  I  see,  well  up  in  the  angle  of 
the  broad  side  gable,  shaded  by  its  rude  awning  of  clap- 


Later  and  Present- Day  Writers  309 

boards,  as  the  eyes  of  an  old  dame  are  shaded  by  her 
wrinkled  hand,  the  window  of  Pauline.  Oh,  for  the  image 
of  the  maiden,  were  it  but  for  one  moment,  leaning  out  of 
the  casement  to  hang  her  mocking-bird  and  looking  down 
into  the  garden, — where,  above  the  barrier  of  old  boards, 
I  see  the  top  of  the  fig-tree,  the  pale  green  clump  of  bananas, 
the  tall  palmetto  with  its  jagged  crown,  Pauline's  own  two 
orange-trees  holding  up  their  hands  toward  the  window, 
heavy  with  the  promises  of  autumn;  the  broad  crimson 
mass  of  the  many-stemmed  oleander,  and  the  crisp  boughs 
of  the  pomegranate  loaded  with  freckled  apples,  and  with 
here  and  there  a  lingering  scarlet  blossom. 

The  Cafe  des  Exiles,  to  use  a  figure,  flowered,  bore  fruit, 
and  dropped  it  long  ago — or  rather  Time  and  Fate,  like 
some  uncursed  Adam  and  Eve,  came  side  by  side  and  cut 
away  its  clusters,  as  we  sever  the  golden  burden  of  the 
banana  from  its  stem;  then,  like  a  banana  which  has  borne 
its  fruit,  it  was  razed  to  the  ground  and  made  way  for  a 
newer,  brighter  growth.  I  believe  it  would  set  every  tooth 
on  edge  should  I  go  by  there  now, — now  that  I  have  heard 
the  story, — and  see  the  old  site  covered  by  the  ''Shoo-fly 
Coffee-house."  Pleasanter  far  to  close  my  eyes  and  call 
to  view  the  unpretentious  portals  of  the  old  cafe,  with  her 
children — for  such  those  exiles  seem  to  me — dragging  their 
rocking-chairs  out,  and  sitting  in  their  wonted  group  under 
the  long,  out-reaching  eaves  which  shaded  the  banquette 
of  the  Rue  Burgundy. 

It  was  in  1835  that  the  Cafe  des  Exiles  was,  as  one  might 
say,  in'  full  blossom.  Old  M.  D'Hemecourt,  father  of 
Pauline  and  host  of  the  cafe,  himself  a  refugee  from  San 
Domingo,  was  the  cause — at  least  the  human  cause — of  its 
opening.  As  its  white-curtained,  glazed  doors  expanded, 
emitting  a  little  puff  of  his  own  cigarette  smoke,  it  was  like 
the  bursting  of  catalpa  blossoms,  and  the  exiles  came  like 
bees,  pushing  into  the  tiny  room  to  sip  its  rich  variety  of 
tropical  sirups,  its  lemonades,  its  orangeades,  its  orgeats, 
its  barley-waters,  and  its  outlandish  wines,  while  they 
talked  of  dear  home — that  is  to  say,  of  Barbadoes,  of  Mar- 
tinique, of  San  Domingo,  and  of  Cuba. 


310  American  Literature 

There  were  Pedro  and  Benigno,  and  Fernandez  and 
Francisco,  and  Benito.  Benito  wa^  a  tall,  swarthy  man, 
with  immense  gray  moustachios,  and  hair  as  harsh  as 
tropical  grass  and  gray  as  ashes.  When  he  could  spare  his 
cigarette  from  his  lips,  he  would  tell  you  in  a  cavernous 
voice,  and  with  a  wrinkled  smile,  that  he  was  *'a-t-thorty- 
seveng." 

There  was  Martinez  of  San  Domingo,  yellow  as  a  canary, 
always  sitting  with  one  leg  curled  under  him,  and  holding 
the  back  of  his  head  in  his  knitted  fingers  against  the  back 
of  his  rocking-chair.  Father,  mother,  brother,  sisters,  all, 
had  been  massacred  in  the  struggle  of  '21  and  '22;  he  alone 
was  left  to  tell  the  tale,  and  told  it  often,  with  that  strange 
infantile  insensibility  to  the  solemnity  of  his  bereavement 
so  pecuUar  to  Latin  people. 

But,  besides  these,  and  many  who  need  no  mention, 
there  were  two  in  particular,  around  whom  all  the  story 
of  the  Cafe  des  Exiles,  of  old  M.  D'Hemecourt  and  of 
PauUne,  turns  as  on  a  double  centre.  First,  Manuel 
Mazaro,  whose  small,  restless  eyes  were  as  black  and 
bright  as  those  of  a  mouse,  whose  light  talk  became  his 
dark  girlish  face,  and  whose  redundant  locks  curled  so 
prettily  and  so  wonderfully  black  under  the  fine  white 
brim  of  his  jaunty  Panama.  He  had  the  hands  of  a  woman, 
save  that  the  nails  were  stained  with  the  smoke  of  ciga- 
rettes. He  could  play  the  guitar  delightfully,  and  wore  his 
knife  down  behind  his  coat-collar. 

The  second  was  *' Major"  Galahad  Shaughnessy.  I 
imagine  I  can  see  him,  in  his  white  duck,  brass-buttoned 
roundabout,  with  his  sabreless  belt  peeping  out  beneath, 
all  his  boyishness  in  his  sea-blue  eyes,  leaning  lightly  against 
,the  door-post  of  the  Cafe  des  Exiles  as  a  child  leans  against 
his  mother,  running  his  fingers  over  a  basketful  of  fragrant 
limes,  and  watching  his  chance  to  strike  some  solemn 
Creole  under  the  fifth  rib  with  a  good  old  Irish  joke.  .  .  . 

5.  Joel  Chandler  Harris  (1848-1908)  was  a  Georgia  writer 
whose  name  became  identified  with  his  creation  Uncle  Remus, 
the  teller  of  tales  of  Brer  Rabbit  and  Brer  Fox,  which  are  the 
delight  of  all  children. 


Later  and  Present- Day  Writers  311 

The  Story  of  the  Doodang 
(From  Uncle  Remus  and  the  Little  Boy.) 

"I  wish,"  said  the  little  boy,  sitting  in  the  doorway  of 
Uncle  Remus's  cabin,  and  watching  a  vulture  poised  on 
motionless  wing,  almost  as  high  as  the  clouds  that  sailed 
by— ''I  wish  I  could  fly." 

The  old  man  regarded  him  curiously,  and  then  a  frown 
crept  up  and  sat  down  on  his  forehead.  "I'll  tell  you  dis 
much,  honey,"  he  said,  "ef  eve'ybody  wuz  ter  git  all  der 
wishes,  de  wide  worF  'ud  be  turned  upside  down,  an'  be 
rolKn'  over  de  wrong  way.  It  sho  would  ! "  He  continued 
to  regard  the  little  boy  with  such  a  solemn  aspect  that 
the  child  moved  uneasily  in  his  seat  on  the  door-step. 
''You  sho  does  put  me  in  min'  er  de  oV  Doodang  dat  useter 
live  in  de  mud-flats  down  on  de  river.  I  ain't  never  see  'im 
myse'f,  but  I  done  seed  dem  what  say  dey  hear  tell  'er  dem 
what  is  see  'im. 

''None  un  um  can't  tell  what  kinder  creetur  de  Doodang 
wuz.  He  had  a  long  tail,  like  a  yallergater,  a  great  big 
body,  four  short  legs,  two  short  y'ears,  and  a  head  mo' 
funny  lookin'  dan  de  rh3mossyhoss.  His  mouf  retched 
from  de  een  er  his  nose  ter  his  shoulder-blades,  an'  his 
tushes  wuz  big  'nough,  long  'nough,  an'  sharp  'nough  fer 
ter  bite  off  de  behime  leg  uv  a  elephant.  He  could  live 
in  de  water,  er  he  could  live  on  dry  Ian',  but  he  mos'ly 
wallered  in  de  mud-flats,  whar  he  could  retch  down  in  de 
water  an'  ketch  a  fish,  er  retch  up  in  de  bushes  an'  ketch 
a  bird.  But  all  dis  ain't  suit  'im  a  tall;  he  got  restless;  he 
tuk  ter  wan  tin'  things  he  ain't  got;  an'  he  worried  an' 
worried,  an'  groaned  an'  growled.  He  kep'  all  de  creeturs, 
fur  and  feather,  wide  awake  fer  miles  aroun'. 

"Bimeby,  one  day.  Brer  Rabbit  come  a-sa'nterin'  by,, 
an'  he  ax  de  Doodang  what  de  name  er  goodness  is  de 
matter,  an'  de  Doodang  'spon'  an'  say  dat  he  wanter  swim 
ez  good  ez  de  fishes  does. 

"Brer  Rabbit  say,  'Ouch!  you  make  de  col'  chills  run 
up  an'  down  my  back  when  you  talk  'bout  swimmin'  in 


312  American  Literature 

de  water.  Swim  on  dry  Ian'  ol'  frien' — swim  on  dry 
Ian'!' 

"But  some  er  de  fishes  done  hear  what  de  Doodang  say, 
an'  dey  helt  a  big  'sembly.  Dey  vow,  dey  can't  stan'  de 
racket  dat  he  been  makin'  bofe  day  an'  night.  De  upshot 
uv  de  'sembly  wuz  dat  all  de  fishes  'gree  fer  ter  loan  de 
Doodang  one  fin  apiece.  So  said,  so  done,  an'  when  dey 
tol'  de  Doodang  about  it,  he  fetched  one  loud  howl  an' 
rolled  inter  shaller  water.  Once  dar,  de  fishes  loant  'im 
eve'y  one  a  fin,  some  big  an'  some  Httle,  an'  atter  dey  done 
dat,  de  Doodang  'skivver  dat  he  kin  swim  des  ez  nimble 
€z  de  rest. 

*'He  skeeted  about  in  de  water,  wavin'  his  tail  fum  side 
ter  side,  an'  swimmin'  fur  an'  wide;  Brer  Rabbit  wuz 
settin'  off  in  de  bushes  watchin'.  Atter  while  de  Doodang 
git  tired,  an'  start  ter  go  on  dry  Ian',  but  de  fishes  kick 
up  sech  a  big  fuss,  an'  make  sech  a  cry,  dat  he  say  he  better 
gi'  um  back  der  fins,  an'  den  he  crawled  out  on  de  mud- 
fiats  fer  ter  take  his  nap. 

*'He  ain't  been  dozin'  so  mighty  long,  'fo'  he  hear  a 
mighty  big  fuss,  an'  he  look  up  an'  see  dat  de  blue  sky  wuz 
fa'rly  black  wid  birds,  big  an'  little.  De  trees  on  de  islan' 
wuz  der  roostin'  place,  but  dey  wuz  comin'  home  soon  so 
dey  kin  git  some  sleep  'fo'  de  Doodang  set  up  his  howlin' 
an'  growHn',  an'  moanin'  an'  groanin'.  Well,  de  birds 
ain't  mo'n  got  settle',  'fo'  de  Doodang  start  up  his  howlin' 
an'  bellerin'.  Den  de  King-Bird  flew'd  down  an'  ax  de 
Doodang  what  de  nam'  er  goodness  is  de  matter.  Den 
de  Doodang  turn  over  in  de  mud,  an'  howl  an'  beller.  De 
King-Bird  flew'd  aroun',  an'  den  he  come  back,  an'  ax 
what  de  trouble  is.  Atter  so  long  a  time,  de  Doodang  say 
dat  de  trouble  wid  him  wuz  dat  he  wanted  ter  fly.  He 
say  all  he  want  wuz  some  feathers,  an'  den  he  kin  fly  ez 
good  ez  anybody. 

*'Den  der  birds  hoi'  a  'sembly,  an'  dey  all  'gree  fer  ter 
loan  de  Doodang  a  feather  apiece.  So  said,  so  done,  an' 
in  a  minnit  er  mo'  he  had  de  feathers  a-plenty.  He  shuck 
his  wings,  an'  ax  whar  'bouts  he  mus'  fly  fer  de  first  try. 

"Brer  Buzzard  say  de  best  place  wuz  ter  de  islan'  what 


Later  and  Present- Day  Writers  313 

ain't  got  nothin'  but  dead  trees  on  it,  an'  wid  dat  de  Doo- 
dang  tuk  a  runnin'  start,  an'  headed  fer  de  place.  He  wuz 
kinder  clumsy,  but  he  got  dar  all  right.  De  birds  went 
'long  fer  ter  see  how  de  Doodang  'ud  come  out.  He  landed 
wid  a  turrible  splash  an'  splutter,  an'  he  ain't  hardly  hit 
de  groun'  'fo'  Brer  Buzzard  say  he  don't  want  his  feather 
fer  ter  git  wet,  an'  he  grabbed  it.  Den  all  de  birds  grabbed 
der'n,  an'  dar  he  wuz. 

"Days  an'  days  come  an'  went,  an'  bimeby  Brer  Rabbit 
wanter  know  what  done  gone  wid  de  Doodang.  Brer 
Buzzard  say,  '  You  see  my  f ambly  settin'  in  de  dead  trees  ? 
Well,  dar's  whar  de  Doodang  is,  en'  ef  you'll  git  me  a  bag, 
I'll  fetch  you  his  bones !'  An'  den  Brer  Rabbit  sot  back 
an'  laugh  twel  his  sides  ache !" 

''Anyhow,"  said  the  Uttle  boy,  ''I  should  like  to  fly." 
"Fly,   den,"   replied  Uncle  Remus;   "Fly  right  in  de 
house  dis  minnit,  ter  yo'  mammy !" 

6.  Thomas  Nelson  Page  (1853-  )  is  one  of  the  best- 
known  writers  of  the  South.  His  stories  of  Virginia  life  "be- 
fore the  war  "  are  widely  read.  He  was  appointed  Ambassador 
to  Italy  by  President  Wilson  in  19 13. 

Marse  Chan 

(From  In  Ole  Virginia) 


"Well,  one  night  Marse  Chan  come  back  from  de  offis 
wid  a  telegram  dat  say,  '  Come  at  once,'  so  he  wuz  to  start 
nex'  mawnin'.  He  uniform  wuz  all  ready,  gray  wid  yaller 
trimmin's,  an'  mine  wuz  ready  too,  an'  he  had  ole  marster's 
sword,  whar  de  State  gi'  'im  in  de  Mexikin  war;  an'  he 
trunks  wuz  all  packed  wid  ev'rything  in  'em,  an'  my  chist 
wuz  packed  too,  an'  Jim  Rasher  he  druv'  'em  over  to  de 
depo'  in  de  waggin',  an'  we  wuz  to  start  nex'  mawnin' 
'bout  light.     Dis  wuz  'bout  de  las'  o'  spring,  yo'  know. 

Dat  night  ole  missis  made  Marse  Chan  dress  up  in  he 
uniform,  an'  he  sut'n'y  did  look  splendid,  wid  he  long 
mustache  an'  he  wavin'  hyar  an'  he  tall  figger. 


314  American  Literature 

''Arfter  supper  he  come  down  an'  sez:  'Sam,  I  wan'  you 
to  tek  dis  note  an'  kyar  it  over  to  Cun'l  Chahmb'lin's,  an' 
gi'  it  to  Miss  Anne  wid  yo'  own  ban's,  an'  bring  me  wud 
what  she  sez.  Don'  let  any  one  know  'bout  it,  or  know  why 
you've  gone.'     'Yes,  seh,'  sez  I. 

"Yo'  see,  I  knowed  Miss  Anne's  maid  over  at  ole  Cun'l 
Chahmb'lin's — dat  wuz  Judy  .  .  .  — an'  I  knowed  I  could 
wuk  it.  So  I  tuk  de  roan  an'  rid  over,  an'  tied  'im  down  de 
hill  in  de  cedars,  an'  I  wen'  'roun  'to  de  back  yard.  ...  I 
soon  foun'  my  gal,  an'  arf ter  tellin'  her  two  or  three  lies  'bout 
herse'f,  I  got  her  to  go  in  an'  ax  Miss  Anne  to  come  to  de 
do'.  When  she  come,  I  gi'  her  de  note,  an'  arfter  a  Kttle 
while  she  bro't  me  anurr,  an'  I  tole  her  good-by,  an'  she 
gi'  me  a  dollar,  an'  I  come  home  an'  gi'  de  letter  to  Marse 
Chan.  He  read  it,  an'  tole  me  to  have  de  bosses  ready  at 
twenty  minits  to  twelve  at  de  corner  of  de  garden.  An' 
jes'  befo'  dat  he  come  out  ez  ef  he  wuz  gwine  to  bed,  but 
instid  he  come,  an'  we  all  struck  out  to'ds  Cun'l  Chahmb'- 
lin's. When  we  got  mos'  to  de  gate,  de  bosses  got  sort  o' 
skerred,  an'  I  see  dey  wuz  some'n  or  somebody  stan'in'  jes' 
inside;  an'  Marse  Chan  he  jump'  off  de  sorrel  an'  flimg  me 
de  bridle  and  he  walked  up. 

"She  spoke  fust.  'Twuz  Miss  Anne  had  done  come  out 
dyah  to  meet  Marse  Chan,  an'  she  sez,  jes'  ez  cold  ez  a 
chill,  'Well,  seh,  I  granted  your  favor.  I  wished  to  re- 
liebe  myse'f  of  de  obligations  you  placed  me  under  a  few 
months  ago,  when  you  made  me  a  present  of  my  father, 
whom  you  fust  insulted  an'  then  prevented  from  gittin' 
satisfaction.' 

"Marse  Chan  he  didn'  speak  fur  a  minit,  an'  den  he  said: 
*  Who  is  with  you? '     (Dat  wuz  ev'y  word.) 

"'No  one,'  sez  she;  'I  came  alone.' 

"'My  God!'  sez  he,  'you  didn't  come  all  through  those 
woods  by  yourse'f  at  this  time  o'  night?' 

"'Yes,  I'm  not  afraid,'  sez  she.  (An'  heah  dis  nigger !  I 
don't  b'lieve  she  wuz.)  .  .  . 

"Marse  Chan,  he  den  tole  her  he  hed  come  to  say  good- 
by  to  her,  ez  he  wuz  gwine  'way  to  de  war  nex'  mawnin'. 
I  wuz  watchin'  on  her,  an'  I  tho't  when  Marse  Chan  tole 


Later  and  Present- Day  Writers  315 

her  dat,  she  sort  o'  started  an'  looked  up  at  'im  Hke  she 
wuz  mighty  sorry,  an'  'peared  Hke  she  didn'  stan'  quite  so 
straight  arfter  dat.  Den  Marse  Chan  he  went  on  talkin' 
right  fars'  to  her;  an'  he  tole  her  how  he  had  loved  her  ever 
sence  she  wuz  a  Kttle  bit  o'  baby  mos',  an'  how  he  nuver 
'membered  de  time  when  he  hedn'  hope'  to  marry  her. 
He  tole  her  it  wuz  his  love  for  her  hed  made  'im  stan'  fust 
at  school  an'  collige,  and  hed  kep'  'im  good  an'  pure;  an' 
now  he  wuz  gwine  'way,  wouldn'  she  let  it  be  like  'twuz  in 
ole  times,  an'  ef  he  come  back  from  de  war  wouldn'  she  try 
to  think  on  him  ez  she  use'  to  when  she  wuz  a  little 
guirl  ? 

''Marse  Chan  he  had  done  been  talkin'  so  serious,  he 
hed  done  tuk  Miss  Anne's  han',  an'  wuz  lookin'  down  in 
her  face  like  he  wuz  list'nin'  wid  he  eyes. 

''Arfter  a  minit  Miss  Anne  she  said  some  thin',  an'  Marse 
Chan  he  cotch  her  urr  han'  an'  sez: 

" '  But  if  you  love  me,  Anne  ? ' 

"When  he  said  dat,  she  tu'ned  her  head  'way  from  'im, 
an'  wait'  a  minit,  an'  den  she  said — right  clear: 

"'But  I  don'  love  yo'.  Qes'  dem  th'ee  wuds.)  De 
wuds  fall  right  slow — like  dirt  falls  out  a  spade  on  a  coffin 
when  yo's  buryin'  anybody,  an'  seys,  'Uth  to  uth.'  Marse 
Chan  he  jes'  let  her  hand  drap,  an'  he  stiddy  hisse'f  'g'inst 
de  gate-pos',  an'  he  didn'  speak  torekly.  When  he  did 
speak,  all  he  sez  wuz: 

"'I  mus'  see  you  home  safe.' 

"I  'plar,  marster,  I  didn't  know  'twuz  Marse  Chan's 
voice  tell  I  look  at  'im  right  good.  Well,  she  wouldn'  let 
'im  go  wid  her.  .  .  .  Soon  ez  she  got  'mos'  'roun'  de  curve, 
Marse  Chan  he  followed  her,  keepin'  under  de  trees  so  ez 
not  to  be  seen,  an'  I  led  the  bosses  on  down  de  road  behine 
'im.  He  kep'  'long  behine  her  tell  she  wuz  safe  in  de  house, 
an'  den  he  come  an'  got  on  he  boss,  an'  we  all  come  home. 

"Nex'  mawnin'  we  all  went  off  to  j'ine  de  army.  .  .  . 
In  camp  he  use'  to  be  so  sorrerful  he'd  hardly  open  he 
mouf.  You'd  'a'  tho't  he  wuz  seekin',  he  used  to  look  so 
moanful;  but  jes'  le'  'im  git  into  danger,  an'  he  use'  to  be 
like  ole  times — jolly  an'  laughin'  like  when  he  wuz  a  boy. 


316  American  Literature 

''When  Cap'n  Gordon  got  he  leg  shoot  off,  dey  mek  Marse 
Chan  cap'n  on  de  spot.  ... 

''An'  Marse  Chan  he  wuz  jes'  de  same.  He  didn'  nuver 
mention  Miss  Anne's  name,  but  I  knowed  he  wuz  thinkin' 
on  her  constant.  .  .  . 

"Well,  I  got  one  o'  de  gent 'mens  to  write  Judy  a  letter 
for  me,  an'  I  tole  her  .  .  .  how  Marse  Chan  wuz  a-dyin'  fur 
love  o'  Miss  Anne.  An'  Judy  she  had  to  git  Miss  Anne  to 
read  de  letter  fur  her.  Den  Miss  Anne  she  tells  her  pa, 
an' — you  mind,  Judy  tells  me  all  dis  arfterwards,  an'  she 
say  when  Cun'l  Chahmb'lin  hear  'bout  it,  he  wuz  settin' 
on  de  poach,  an'  he  set  still  a  good  while,  an'  den  he  sey  to 
hisse'f  I 

'"Well,  he  cam'  he'p  bein'  a  Whig.' 

"An'  den  he  gits  up  an'  walks  up  to  Miss  Anne  an'  looks 
at  her  right  hard;  an'  Miss  Anne  she  hed  done  tu'n  away 
her  haid  an'  wuz  makin'  out  she  wuz  fixin'  a  rose-bush 
'g'inst  de  poach;  an'  when  her  pa  kep'  lookin'  at  her,  her 
face  got  jes'  de  color  o'  de  roses  on  de  bush,  and  pres'n'y 
her  pa  sez: 

"'Anne!' 

"An'  she  tu'ned  roun*,  an'  he  sez: 

"'Doyo'  want  'im?' 

"An'  she  sez,  'Yes,'  an'  put  her  head  on  he  shoulder  an' 
begin  to  cry;  an'  he  sez: 

'"Well,  I  won'  Stan'  between  yo'  no  longer.  Write  to 
'im  an'  say  so.' 

"We  didn'  know  nuthin'  'bout  dis  den.  We  wuz  a- 
fightin'  an'  a-fightin'  all  dat  time;  an'  come  one  day  a  let- 
ter to  Marse  Chan,  an'  I  see  'im  start  to  read  it  in  his  tent 
...  an'  he  face  hit  look  so  cu'iousome  an'  he  ban's  trembled 
so  I  couldn'  mek  out  what  wuz  de  matter  wid  'im.  An'  he 
fol'  de  letter  up  an'  wen'  out  an'  wen'  way  down  'hine  de 
camp,  an'  stayed  dyah  'bout  nigh  an  hour.  Well,  seh,  I 
wuz  on  de  lookout  for  'im  when  he  come  back,  an'  'fo' 
Gord,  ef  he  face  didn'  shine  like  a  angel !  I  say  to  myse'f, 
'Umm',  ef  de  glory  o'  Gord  ain'  done  shine  on  'im !'  .  An' 
what  yo'  'spose  'twuz  ? 

"He  tuk  me  wid  'im  dat  evenin'  an'  he  tell  me  he  had 


Later  and  Present- Day  Writers  317 

done  git  a  letter  from  Miss  Anne,  an'  Marse  Chan  he  eyes 
look  Hke  gre't  big  stars.  .  .  . 

"He  for  de  letter  wha'  was  in  his  han'  up,  an'  put  it  in  he 
inside  pocket — right  dyah  on  de  lef  side;  an'  den  he  tole  me 
he  tho't  mebbe  we  wuz  gwine  hev  some  warm  wuk  in  de 
nex'  two  or  th'ee  days,  an'  arfter  dat  ef  Gord  speared  'im 
he'd  git  a  leave  o'  absence  fur  a  few  days,  an'  we'd  go  home. 

"Well,  dat  night  de  orders  come,  an'  we  all  hed  to  git  over 
to'ds  Romney;  an'  we  rid  all  night  till  'bout  light;  an'  we 
halted  right  on  a  little  creek,  an'  we  stayed  dyah  till  mos* 
breakfast  time  ...  an'  I  see  Marse  Chan  set  down  on  de 
groun'  hine  a  bush  an'  read  dat  letter  over  an'  over.  I 
watch  'im,  an'  -de  battle  wuz  a-goin'  on,  but  we  had  orders 
to  stay  'hine  de  hill,  an'  ev'y  now  an'  den  de  bullets  would 
cut  de  limbs  o'  de  trees  right  over  us,  an'  one  o'  dem  big 
shells  what  goes  Awhar — awhar — awhar — is  you!  would  fall 
right  'mong  us;  but  Marse  Chan  he  didn'  mine  it  no  mo'n 
nuttin' !  Den  it  'peared  to  git  closer  an'  thicker,  and  Marse 
Chan  he  calls  me,  an'  I  crep'  up,  an'  he  sez: 

"^Sam,  we'se  goin'  to  win  in  dis  battle,  an'  den  we'll  go 
home  an'  git  married;  an'  I'm  goin'  home  wid  a  star  on  my 
collar.'  An'  den  he  sez,  'Ef  I'm  wounded,  kyar  me  home, 
yo'  hear?'     An'  I  sez,  'Yes,  Marse  Chan.' 

"Well,  jes'  den  dey  blowed  'boots  an'  saddles,'  an'  we 
mounted.  .  .  .  An'  dey  said,  '  Charge  'em  ! '  an'  my  king !  ef 
ever  you  see  bullets  fly,  dey  did  dat  day.  Hit  wuz  jes' 
like  hail;  an'  we  wen'  down  de  slope  (I  'long  wid  de  res') 
an'  up  de  hill  right  to'ds  de  cannons,  an'  de  fire  wuz  so 
strong  dyah  (dey  hed  a  whole  rigiment  o'  infintrys  layin' 
down  dyah  onder  de  cannons)  our  lines  sort  o'  broke  an' 
stop;  de  cun'l  was  kilt,  an'  I  b'lieve  dey  wuz  jes'  'bout  to 
bre'k  all  to  pieces,  when  Marse  Chan  rid  up  an'  cotch  hoi' 
de  fleg  an'  hollers,  '  Foller  me ! '  an'  rid  strainin'  up  de  hill 
'mong  de  cannons.  .  .  .  Yo'  ain'  nuver  hear  thunder  !  Fust 
thing  I  knowed,  de  roan  roll'  head  over  heels  an'  flung  me 
up  'g'inst  de  bank,  like  yo'  chuck  a  nubbin  over  'g'inst 
de  fqot  o'  de  corn  pile.  An'  dat's  what  kep'  me  from  bein' 
kilt,  I  'specks.  .  .  .  When  I  look'  'roun',  de  roan  wuz  layin' 
dyah  by  me,  stone  dead,  wid  a  cannon-ball  gone  'mos' 


318  American  Literature 

th*oo  him,  an'  our  men  hed  done  swep'  dem  on  t'urr 
side  from  de  top  o'  de  hill.  'Twan'  mo'n  a  minit,  de  sorrel 
come  gallupin'  back  wid  his  mane  flyin'  an'  de  rein  hanging 
down  on  one  side  to  his  knee.  'Dyah!'  sez  I,  "fo'  Gord ! 
I  'specks  dey  done  kill  Marse  Chan,  an'  I  promised  to  tek 
care  on  him.' 

"I  jumped  up  an'  run  over  de  banks,  an'  dyah,  wid  a 
whole  lot  o'  dead  men,  an'  some  not  dead  yit,  onder  one  o' 
de  guns  wid  de  fleg  still  in  he  han',  an'  a  bullet  right  th'oo 
he  body,  lay  Marse  Chan.  I  tu'n  'im  over  an'  call  'im, 
*  Marse  Chan !'  but  'twan'  no  use,  he  wuz  done  gone  home, 
sho'  'nuff.  I  pick'  'im  up  in  my  arms  wid  de  fleg  still  in 
he  ban's,  an'  toted  'im  back  jes'  like  I  did  dat  day  when  he 
wuz  a  baby,  an'  ole  marster  gin  'im  to  me  in  my  arms,  an' 
sez  he  could  trus'  me,  an'  tell  me  to  tek  keer  on  'im  long 
ez  he  lived.  I  kyar'd  'im  'way  off  de  battlefiel'  out  de  way 
o'  de  balls,  an'  I  laid  'im  down  onder  a  big  tree  till  I  could 
git  somebody  to  ketch  de  sorrel  for  me.  He  wuz  cotched 
arfter  a  while,  an'  I  hed  some  money,  so  I  got  some  pine 
plank  an'  made  a  cofhn  dat  evenin',  an'  wrapt  Marse 
Chan's  body  up  in  de  fleg,  an'  put  'im  in  de  coffin;  but  I 
didn'  nail  de  top  on  strong,  'cause  I  knowed  ole  missis 
wan'  see  'im;  an'  I  got  a'  ambulance  an'  set  out  for  home 
dat  night.  We  reached  dyah  de  nex'  even',  arfter  travellin' 
all  dat  night  an'  all  nex'  day. 

''Hit  'peared  like  somethin'  hed  tole  ole  missis  we  wuz 
comin'  so;  for  when  we  got  home  she  wuz  waitin'  for  us — 
done  drest  up  in  her  best  Sunday-clo'es,  an'  stan'in'  at 
de  head  o'  de  big  steps,  an'  ole  marster  settin'  in  his  big 
cheer — ez  we  druv  up  de  hill  to'ds  de  house,  I  drivin'  de 
ambulance  an'  de  sorrel  leadin'  long  behine  wid  de  stir- 
rups crost  over  de  saddle. 

"She  come  down  to  de  gate  to  meet  us.  We  took  de 
coffin  out  de  ambulance  an'  kyar'd  it  right  into  de  big 
parlor.  ...  In  dyah  we  laid  de  coffin  on  two  o'  de  cheers, 
an'  ole  missis  nuver  said  a  wud;  she  jes'  looked  so  ole  an' 
white. 

"When  I  hed  tell  'em  all  'bout  it,  I  tu'ned  'roun'  an'  rid 
over  to  Cun'l  Chahmb'lin's,   'cause  I  knowed  dat  wuz 


Later  and  Present- Day  Writers  319 

what  Marse  Chan  he'd  'a'  wanted  me  to  do.  I  didn't 
tell  anybody  whar  I  wuz  gwine,  'cause  yo'  know  none  on 
'em  hadn'  nuver  speak  to  Miss  Anne,  not  sence  de  dull, 
an'  dey  didn'  know  'bout  de  letter. 

"When  I  rid  up  in  de  yard,  dyah  wuz  Miss  Anne  a- 
stan'in'  on  de  poach  watchin'  me  ez  I  rid  up.  I  tied  my 
boss  to  de  fence,  an'  walked  up  de  parf.  ...  I  drapt  my 
cap  down  on  de  een  o'  de  steps  an'  went  up.  She  nuver 
opened  her  mouf ;  jes'  stan'  right  still  an'  keep  her  eyes  on 
my  face.  Fust,  I  couldn'  speak;  den  I  cotch  my  voice,  an' 
I  say,  'Marse  Chan,  he  done  got  he  furlough.' 

"Her  face  was  mighty  ashy  an'  she  sort  o'  shook,  but 
she  didn'  fall.  She  tu'ned  'roun'  an'  said,  *Git  me  de 
ker'ige ! '     Dat  wuz  all. 

"When  de  ker'ige  come  'roun',  she  hed  put  on  her  bon- 
net, an'  wuz  ready.  Ez  she  got  in,  she  sey  to  me,  'Hev 
yo'  brought  him  home  ? '  an'  we  drove  'long,  I  ridin'  behine. 

"When  we  got  home,  she  got  out,  an'  walked  up  de  big 
walk — up  to  de  poach  by  herse'f.  Ole  missis  hed  done 
fin'  de  letter  in  Marse  Chan's  pocket,  wid  de  love  in  it, 
while  I  wuz  'way  an'  she  wuz  a-waitin'  on  de  poach.  Dey 
sey  dat  wuz  de  fust  time  ole  missis  cry  when  she  find  de 
letter,  an'  dat  she  sut'n'y  did  cry  over  it,  pintedly. 

"Well,  seh,  Miss  Anne  she  walks  right  up  de  steps,  mos' 
up  to  ole  missis  stan'in'  dyah  on  de  poach,  an'  jes'  falls 
right  down  mos'  to  her,  on  her  knees  fust,  an'  den  flat  on 
her  face  right  on  de  flo',  ketchin'  at  ole  missis'  dress  wid 
her  two  ban's — so. 

"Ole  missis  stood  for  'bout  a  minit  lookin'  down  at  her, 
an'  den  she  drapt  down  on  de  flo'  by  her,  an'  took  her  in 
bofe  her  arms. 

"I  couldn'  see,  I  wuz  cryin'  so  myse'f,  an'  ev'ybody  wuz 
cryin'.  But  dey  went  in  arfter  a  while  in  de  parlor,  an* 
shet  de  do'.  .  .  . 

"Judy  (she's  my  wife)  she  tell  me  she  heah  Miss  Anne 
when  she  axed  ole  missis  mout  she  wear  mo'nin'  fur  'im. 
I  don'  know  how  dat  is;  but  when  we  buried  'im  nex'  day, 
she  wuz  de  one  whar  walked  arfter  de  cofl&n,  holdin'  ole 
marster,  an'  ole  missis  she  walked  nex'  to  'em. 


320  American  Literature 

*'Well,  we  buried  Marse  Chan  dyah  in  de  ole  grabeyard^ 
wid  de  fleg  wrap't  roun'  'im,  an'  he  face  lookin'  like  it 
did  dat  mawnin'  down  in  de  low  grounds,  wid  de  new  sun 
shinin'  on  it  so  peaceful."  .  .  . 

7.  Ruth  McEnery  Stuart  (1856-  )  is  a  native  of  Loui- 
siana. She  has  given  us  many  humorous  tales  of  the  Southern 
negro,  as  in  A  Golden  Wedding  and  Other  Tales.  (See  Bibliog- 
raphy, page  362,  for  suggested  readings.) 

8.  Henry  R.  James  (1843-  )  was  born  in  New  York 
but  has  lived  in  England  since  1869.  His  name  is  associated 
with  that  of  Howells  as  a  leader  in  American  fiction.  He,  too, 
is  an  apostle  of  realism,  and  he  has  been  eminently  successful 
with  the  realistic  short  story.  "When  his  short  story  The 
Passionate  Pilgrim  was  published,"  says  Mr.  Hamilton  Wright 
Mabie,  "Americans  had  the  feeling  that  at  last  we  had  'ar- 
rived' in  literature."  He  excels  also  in  the  international  novel 
which  his  life  abroad  has  fitted  him  to  write.  His  early  work 
is  his  best.  Daisy  Miller  (1878)  is  considered  by  many  his 
most  interesting  novel. 

Longueville's  Sketch 

(From  Confidence) 

It  was  in  the  early  days  of  April;  Bernard  Longueville 
had  been  spending  the  winter  in  Rome.  He  had  travelled 
northward  with  the  consciousness  of  several  social  duties 
that  appealed  to  him  from  the  further  side  of  the  Alps, 
but  he  was  under  the  charm  of  the  Italian  spring,  and  he 
made  a  pretext  for  lingering.  He  had  spent  five  days 
at  Siena,  where  he  had  intended  to  spend  but  two,  and  still 
it  was  impossible  to  continue  his  journey.  .  .  .  He  had  a 
fancy  for  sketching,  and  it  was  on  his  conscience  to  take 
a  few  pictorial  notes.  ...  On  the  last  morning  of  his  visit, 
as  he  stood  staring  about  him  in  the  crowded  piazza,  and 
feeling  that,  in  spite  of  its  picturesqueness,  this  was  an 
awkward  place  for  setting  up  an  easel,  he  bethought  him- 
self, by  contrast,  of  a  quiet  corner  in  another  part  of  the 
town,  which  he  had  chanced  upon  in  one  of  his  first  walks 


Later  and  Present- Day  Writers  321 

....  The  thing  was  what  painters  call  a  subject,  and 
he  had  promised  himself  to  come  back  with  his  utensils. 
This  morning  he  returned  to  the  inn  and  took  possession 
of  them,  and  then  he  made  his  way  through  a  labyrinth 
of  empty  streets,  lying  on  the  edge  of  the  town,  within 
the  wall,  like  the  superfluous  folds  of  a  garment  whose 
wearer  has  shrunken  with  old  age.  He  reached  his  Httle 
grass-grown  terrace,  and  found  it  as  sunny  and  as  private 
as  before.  .  .  .  Longueville  settled  himself  on  the  empty 
bench,  and  arranging  his  little  portable  apparatus,  began 
to  ply  his  brushes.  ...  It  seemed  almost  an  interruption 
when,  in  the  silent  air,  he  heard  a  distant  bell  in  the 
town  strike  noon.  Shortly  after  this,  there  was  another 
interruption.  The  sound  of  a  soft  footstep  caused  him 
to  look  up;  whereupon  he  saw  a  young  woman  standing 
there  and  bending  her  eyes  upon  the  graceful  artist.  .  .  . 
She  stood  there  a  moment  longer — long  enough  to  let  him 
see  that  she  was  a  person  of  easy  attitudes — and  then  she 
walked  away  slowly  to  the  parapet  of  the  terrace.  Here 
she  stationed  herself,  leaning  her  arms  upon  the  high  stone 
ledge,  presenting  her  back  to  Longueville,  and  gazing  at 
rural  Italy.  Longueville  went  on  with  his  sketch,  but  less 
attentively  than  before.  .  .  .  His  first  feeling  was  that 
she  would  spoil  it;  his  second  was  that  she  would  improve 
it.  Little  by  little  she  turned  more  into  profile,  leaning 
only  one  arm  upon  the  parapet,  while  the  other  hand, 
holding  her  folded  parasol,  hung  down  at  her  side.  She 
was  motionless;  it  was  almost  as  if  she  were  standing  there 
on  purpose  to  be  drawn.  .  .  .  ''Is  she  posing — is  she  atti- 
tudinizing for  my  benefit  ?  ...  But  posing  or  not,"  he  went 
on,  "I  will  put  her  into  my  sketch.  She  has  simply  put 
herself  in.  It  will  give  it  a  human  interest.  There  is 
nothing  like  having  a  human  interest."  So,  with  the  ready 
skill  that  he  possessed,  he  introduced  the  young  girl's 
figure  into  his  foreground,  and  at  the  end  of  ten  minutes  he 
had  almost  made  something  that  had  the  form  of  a  like- 
ness. "If  she  will  only  be  quiet  for  another  ten  minutes," 
he  said,  "  the  thing  will  really  be  a  picture."  Unfortunately, 
the  young  lady  was  not  quiet;  she  had  apparently  had 


322  American  Literature 

enough  of  her  attitude  and  her  view.  She  turned  away, 
facing  Longueville  again,  and  slowly  came  back,  as  if  to 
re-enter  the  church.  To  do  so  she  had  to  pass  near  him, 
and  as  she  approached  he  instinctively  got  up,  holding  his 
drawing  in  one  hand.  She  looked  at  him  again,  with  that 
expression  that  he  had  mentally  characterized  as  "bold"  a 
few  minutes  before — with  dark,  intelHgent  eyes.  Her  hair 
was  dark  and  dense;  she  was  a  strikingly  handsome  girl. 

"I  am  so  sorry  you  moved,"  he  said,  confidently,  in 
English.     ^'You  were  so — so  beautiful." 

"I  am  much  obliged  to  you.  Don't  you  think  you  have 
looked  at  me  enough?" 

**By  no  means.  I  should  like  so  much  to  finish  my 
drawing." 

''I  am  not  a  professional  model,"  said  the  young  lady. 

*'No.  That's  my  difficulty,"  Longueville  answered, 
laughing.     "I  can't  propose  to  remunerate  you." 

"You  see  it  will  be  pure  kindness,"  he  went  on, — "a 
simple  act  of  charity.  Five  minutes  will  be  enough. 
Treat  me  as  an  ItaHan  beggar." 

He  had  laid  down  his  sketch  and  had  stepped  forward. 
He  stood  there,  obsequious,  clasping  his  hands  and  smil- 
ing. ... 

"I  wish  to  go  to  my  mother,"  she  said. 

*' Where  is  your  mother?"  the  young  man  asked. 

"In  the  church,  of  course.     I  didn't  come  here  alone !" 

"Of  course  not;  but  you  may  be  sure  that  your  mother 
is  very  contented.  I  have  been  in  that  little  church.  It 
is  charming.  She  is  just  resting  there;  she  is  probably 
tired.  If  you  will  kindly  give  me  five  minutes  more,  she 
will  come  out  to  you." 

"Five  minutes?"  the  young  girl  asked. 

"Five  minutes  will  do.  I  shall  be  eternally  grate- 
ful." .  .  . 

The  graceful  stranger  dropped  an  eye  on  the  sketch  again, 

"Is  your  picture  so  good  as  that?"  she  asked. 


Later  and  Present- Day  Writers  323 

"I  have  a  great  deal  of  talent,"  he  answered,  laughing. 
^' You  shall  see  for  yourself,  when  it  is  finished." 

She  turned  slowly  toward  the  terrace  again. 

"You  certainly  have  a  great  deal  of  talent  to  induce  me 
to  do  what  you  ask."  And  she  walked  to  where  she  had 
stood  before.  Longueville  made  a  movement  to  go  with 
her,  as  if  to  show  her  the  attitude  he  meant;  but,  pointing 
with  decision  to  his  easel,  she  said, — 

"You  have  only  five  minutes."  He  immediately  went 
back  to  his  work,  and  she  made  a  vague  attempt  to  take 
up  her  position.  "You  must  tell  me  if  this  will  do,"  she 
added,  in  a  moment. 

"  It  will  do  beautifully,"  Longueville  answered,  in  a  happy 
tone,  looking  at  her  and  plying  his  brush.  "  It  is  immensely 
good  of  you  to  take  so  much  trouble." 

For  a  moment  she  made  no  rejoinder,  but  presently  she 
said — 

"Of  course  if  I  pose  at  all  I  wish  to  pose  well." 

"You  pose  admirably,"  said  Longueville. 

After  this  she  said  nothing,  and  for  several  minutes  he 
painted  rapidly  and  in  silence.  .  .  .  Longiieville's  little 
figure  was  a  success — a  charming  success,  he  thought,  as  he 
put  on  the  last  touches.  While  he  was  doing  this,  his 
model's  companion  came  into  view.  She  came  out  of  the 
church,  pausing  a  moment  as  she  looked  from  her  daughter 
to  the  young  man  in  the  corner  of  the  terrace;  then  she 
walked  straight  over  to  the  young  girl.  She  was  a  deHcate 
little  gentlewoman,  with  a  light,  quick  step. 

Longueville's  five  minutes  were  up;  so,  leaving  his  place, 
he  approached  the  two  ladies,  sketch  in  hand.  .  .  . 

"It  is  my  portrait,"  said  her  daughter,  as  Longueville 
drew  near.     "This  gentleman  has  been  sketching  me." 

"Sketching  you,  dearest?"  murmured  her  mother. 
"Wasn't  it  rather  sudden?" 

"Very  sudden — very  abrupt!"  exclaimed  the  young  girl 
with  a  laugh. 

"Considering  all  that,  it's  very  good,"  said  Longueville, 
offering  his  picture  to  the  elder  lady,  who  took  it  and  be- 
gan to  examine  it.  .  .  . 


324  American  Literature 

''It's  a  beautiful  drawing,"  murmured  [she],  handing  the 
thing  back  to  Longueville.  Her  daughter  meanwhile,  had 
not  even  glanced  at  it.  .  .  . 

''Won't  you  do  me  the  honor  of  keeping  my  sketch?" 
he  said.     "I  think  it  really  looks  like  your  daughter.".  .  . 

"It's  extremely  beautiful,"  she  murmured,  "and  if 
you  insist  on  my  taking  it " 

"I  shall  regard  it  as  a  great  honor." 

"Very  well,  then;  with  many  thanks,  I  will  keep  it.'* 
She  looked  at  the  young  man  a  moment,  while  her  daughter 
walked  away.  ...  "I  am  sure  you  think  she  is  a  strange 
girl,"  she  said. 

"She  is  extremely  pretty."  .... 

"Ah,  but  she's  good !"  cried  the  old  lady. 

"I  am  sure  she  comes  honestly  by  that,"  said  Longue- 
ville, expressively,  while  his  companion,  returning  his 
salutation  with  a  certain  scrupulous  grace  of  her  own, 
hurried  after  her  daughter. 

Longueville  remained  there  staring  at  the  view,  but  not 
especially  seeing  it.  He  felt  as  if  he  had  at  once  enjoyed 
and  lost  an  opportunity.  .  .  . 

9.  Frances  Hodgson  Burnett  (1849-  )  was  born  in 
England,  but  came  to  the  United  States  when  a  young  girl. 
She  has  written  many  novels  and  short  stories.  Her  child 
stories  such  as  Little  Lord  Fauntleroy  and  Editha's  Burglar  are 
very  popular. 

Being  a  Lord 

(From  Little  Lord  Fauntleroy,  Chapter  III) 

Cedric's  good  opinion  of  the  advantages  of  being  an 
earl  increased  greatly  during  the  next  week.  It  seemed 
almost  impossible  for  him  to  reahze  that  there  was  scarcely 
anything  he  might  wish  to  do  which  he  could  not  do  easily; 
in  fact,  I  think  it  may  be  said  that  he  did  not  fully  realize 
it  at  all.  But  at  least  he  understood,  after  a  few  conver- 
sations with  Mr.  Havisham,  that  he  could  gratify  all  his 
nearest  wishes,  and  he  proceeded  to  gratify  them  with  a 
simplicity  and  delight  which  caused  Mr.  Havisham  much 


Later  and  Present- Day  Writers  325 

diversion.  In  the  week  before  they  sailed  for  England,  he 
did  many  curious  things.  The  lawyer  long  after  remem- 
bered the  morning  they  went  down-town  together  to  pay 
a  visit  to  Dick,  and  the  afternoon  they  so  amazed  the 
apple-woman  of  ancient  Hneage  by  stopping  before  her 
stall  and  telHng  her  she  was  to  have  a  tent,  and  a  stove, 
and  a  shawl,  and  a  sum  of  money  which  seemed  to  her 
quite  wonderful. 

''For  I  have  to  go  to  England  and  be  a  lord,"  explained 
Cedric,  sweet-temperedly.  "And  I  shouldn't  like  to  have 
your  bones  on  my  mind  every  time  it  rained.  My  own 
bones  never  hurt,  so  I  think  I  don't  know  how  painful  a 
person's  bones  can  be,  but  I've  sympathized  with  you  a 
great  deal,  and  I  hope  you'll  be  better." 

''She's  a  very  good  apple-woman,"  he  said  to  Mr. 
Havisham,  as  they  walked  away,  leaving  the  proprietress 
of  the  stall  almost  gasping  for  breath,  and  not  at  all  be- 
lieving in  her  great  fortune.  "Once,  when  I  fell  down  and 
cut  my  knee,  she  gave  me  an  apple  for  nothing.  I've 
always  remembered  her  for  it.  You  know  you  always  re- 
member people  who  are  kind  to  you." 

It  had  never  occurred  to  his  honest,  simple  little  mind 
that  there  were  people  who  could  forget  kindnesses. 

The  interview  with  Dick  was  quite  exciting.  Dick  had 
just  been  having  a  great  deal  of  trouble  with  Jake,  and 
was  in  low  spirits  when  they  saw  him.  His  amazement 
when  Cedric  calmly  announced  that  they  had  come  to 
give  him  what  seemed  a  very  great  thing  to  him,  and  would 
set  all  his  troubles  right,  almost  struck  him  dumb.  Lord 
Fauntleroy's  manner  of  announcing  the  object  of  his  visit 
was  very  simple  and  unceremonious.  Mr.  Havisham  was 
much  impressed  by  its  directness  as  he  stood  by  and 
Hstened.  The  statement  that  his  old  friend  had  become  a 
lord,  and  was  in  danger  of  being  an  earl  if  he  hved  long 
enough,  caused  Dick  to  so  open  his  eyes  and  mouth,  and 
start,  that  his  cap  fell  off.  When  he  picked  it  up,  he  uttered 
a  rather  singular  exclamation.  Mr.  Havisham  thought  it 
singular,  but  Cedric  had  heard  it  before. 

"I  soy !"  he  said,  "what're  yer  givin'  us?"    This  plainly 


326  American  Literature 

embarrassed  his  lordship  a  little,  but  he  bore  himself 
bravely. 

''Everybody  thinks  it  not  true  at  first,"  he  said.  "Mr. 
Hobbs  thought  I'd  had  a  sunstroke.  I  didn't  think  I  was 
going  to  like  it  myself,  but  I  like  it  better  now  I'm  used 
to  it.  The  one  who  is  the  earl  now,  he's  my  grandpapa; 
and  he  wants  me  to  do  anything  I  hke.  He's  very  kind, 
if  he  is  an  earl;  and  he  sent  me  a  lot  of  money  by  Mr. 
Havisham,  and  I've  brought  some  to  you  to  buy  Jake  out." 

And  the  end  of  the  matter  was  that  Dick  actually  bought 
Jake  out,  and  found  himself  the  possessor  of  the  business 
and  some  new  brushes  and  a  most  astonishing  sign  and 
outfit.  He  could  not  beHeve  in  his  good  luck  any  more 
easily  than  the  apple-woman  of  ancient  Uneage  could  be- 
lieve in  hers;  he  walked  about  like  a  boot-black  in  a  dream; 
he  stared  at  his  young  benefactor  and  felt  as  if  he  might 
wake  up  at  any  moment.  He  scarcely  seemed  to  realize 
anything  until  Cedric  put  out  his  hand  to  shake  hands 
with  him  before  going  away.  .  .  . 

lo.  Mary  N.  Murfree  (1850-  )  is  a  native  of  Tennessee. 
Under  the  pen-name  "Charles  Egbert  Craddock"  she  has 
written  interesting  character  studies  of  the  mountaineers  of 
Tennessee,  many  novels  of  life  in  Tennessee  and  Mississippi, 
also  historical  romances,  and  volumes  of  short  stories,  magazine 
articles,  and  books  for  juvenile  readers. 

His  Christmas  Miracle 

(In  The  Raid  of  the  Guerilla) 
He  yearned  for  a  sign  from  the  heavens.  .  .  . 

The  house  was  gone  !  Even  the  site  had  vanished  !  Ken- 
nedy stared  bewildered.  Slowly  the  realization  of  what  had 
chanced  here  began  to  creep  through  his  brain.  Evidently 
there  had  been  a  gigantic  landslide.  The  cHff-like  projection 
was  broken  sheer  off, — hurled  into  the  depths  of  the  valley. 
Some  action  of  subterranean  waters,  throughout  ages, 
doubtless,  had  been  undermining  the  great  crags  till  the 
rocky  crust  of  the  earth  had  collapsed.    He  could  see  even 


Later  and  Present- Day  Writers  327 

now  how  the  freeze  had  fractured  out-cropping  ledges 
where  the  ice  had  gathered  in  the  fissures.  A  deep  abyss 
that  he  remembered  as  being  at  a  considerable  distance 
from  the  mountain's  brink,  once  spanned  by  a  foot-bridge, 
now  showed  the  remnant  of  its  jagged,  shattered  walls  at 
the  extreme  verge  of  the  precipice. 

A  cold  chill  of  horror  benumbed  his  senses.  Basil,  the 
wife,  the  children, — where  were  they?  A  terrible  death, 
surely,  to  be  torn  from  the  warm  securities  of  the  hearth- 
stone, without  a  moment's  warning,  and  hurled  into  the 
midst  of  this  frantic  turmoil  of  nature,  down  to  the  depths 
of  the  Gap, — a  thousand  feet  below !  And  at  what  time 
had  this  dread  fate  befallen  his  friend?  He  remembered 
that  at  the  cross-roads'  store,  when  he  had  paused  on  his 
way  to  warm  himself  that  morning,  some  gossip  was  de- 
tailing the  phenomenon  of  unseasonable  thunder  during 
the  previous  night,  while  others  protested  that  it  must 
have  been  only  the  clamors  of  "Christmas  guns"  firing  all 
along  the  country-side.  .  .  . 

Kennedy  was  scarcely  conscious  that  he  saw  the  vast 
disorder  of  the  land-slide,  scattered  from  the  precipice  on 
the  mountain's  brink  to  the  depths  of  the  Gap — inverted 
roots  of  great  pines  thrust  out  in  mid-air,  foundations  of 
crags  riven  asunder  and  hurled  in  monstrous  fragments 
along  the  steep  slant,  unknown  streams  newly  liberated 
from  the  caverns  of  the  range  and  cascading  from  the 
crevices  of  the  rocks.  In  effect  he  could  not  beheve  his 
own  eyes.  His  mind  realized  the  perception  of  his  senses 
only  when  his  heart  suddenly  plunged  with  a  wild  hope, — 
he  had  discerned  amongst  the  turmoil  a  shape  of  Hne  and 
rule,  the  Httle  box-like  hut !  Caught  as  it  was  in  the  boughs 
of  a  cluster  of  pines  and  firs,  uprooted  and  thrust  out  at  an 
incline  a  little  less  than  vertical,  the  inmates  might  have 
been  spared  such  shock  of  the  fall  as  would  otherwise  have 
proved  fatal. 


He  wondered  if  the  inmates  yet  lived, — he  pitied  them 
still  more  if  they  only  existed  to  realize  their  peril,  to  await 


328  American  Literature 

in  an  anguish  of  fear  their  ultimate  doom.  Perhaps — he 
knew  he  was  but  trifling  with  despair — some  rescue  might 
be  devised. 

Such  a  weird  cry  he  set  up  on  the  brink  of  the  mountain ! 
— full  of  horror,  grief,  and  that  poignant  hope.  The 
echoes  of  the  Gap  seemed  reluctant  to  repeat  the  tones, 
dull,  slow,  muffled  in  snow.  But  a  sturdy  halloo  responded 
from  the  window,  uppermost  now,  for  the  house  lay  on 
its  side  amongst  the  boughs.  Kennedy  thought  he  saw  the 
paUid  simulacrum  of  a  face. 

''This  be  Jube  Kennedy,"  he  cried,  reassuringly.  "I  be 
goin'  ter  fetch  help, — men,  ropes,  and  a  windlass." 

"Make  haste  then, — we  uns  be  nigh  friz." 

'*Ye  air  in  no  danger  of  fire,  then?"  asked  the  practical 
man. 

'*We  have  hed  none, — before  we  war  flunged  off'n  the 
bluff  we  hed  squinched  the  fire  ter  pledjure  Bob,  ez  he  war 
afeard  Santy  Glaus  would  scorch  his  feet  comin'  down  the 
chimbley, — powerful  lucky  fur  we  uns;  the  fire  would  hev 
burnt  the  house  bodaciously." 

Kennedy  hardly  stayed  to  hear.  He  was  off  in  a  mo- 
ment, galloping  at  frantic  speed  along  the  snowy  trail 
scarcely  traceable  in  the  sad  Kght  of  the  gray  day;  .  .  . 
reaching  again  the  open  sheeted  roadway,  bruised,  bleed- 
ing, exhausted,  yet  furiously  plunging  forward,  rousing 
the  sparsely  settled  country-side  with  imperative  insistence 
for  help  in  this  matter  of  life  or  death ! 

Death,  indeed,  only, — for  the  enterprise  was  pronounced 
impossible  by  those  more  experienced  than  Kennedy. 
Among  the  men  now  on  the  bluff  were  several  who  had  been 
employed  in  the  silver  mines  of  this  region,  and  they  dem- 
onstrated conclusively  that  a  rope  could  not  be  worked 
clear  of  the  obstructions  of  the  face  of  the  rugged  and 
shattered  cUffs;  that  a  human  being,  drawn  from  the  cabin, 
strapped  in  a  chair,  must  needs  be  torn  from  it  and  flung 
into  the  abyss  below,  or  beaten  to  a  frightful  death  against 
the  jagged  rocks  in  the  transit. 

"But  not  ef  the  chair  was  ter  be  steadied  by  a  guy-rope 
from — say — from  that  thar  old  pine  tree  over  thar,"  Ken- 


Later  and  Present- Day  Writers  329 

nedy  insisted,  indicating  the  long  bole  of  a  partially  up- 
rooted and  inverted  tree  on  the  steeps.  "The  chair  would 
swing  cl'ar  of  the  bluff  then." 

''But,  Jube,  it  is  onpossible  ter  git  a  guy-rope  over  ter 
that  tree, — more  than  a  man's  life  is  wuth  ter  try  it." 

A  moment  ensued  of  absolute  silence, — space,  however, 
for  a  hard-fought  battle  .  .  .  ere  he  said  with  a  spare 
dull  voice  and  dry  Ups, 

''Fix  ter  let  me  down  ter  that  thar  leanin'  pine,  boys, — 
I'll  kerry  a  guy-rope  over  thar." 

At  one  side  the  crag  beetled,  and  although  it  was  im- 
possible thence  to  reach  the  cabin  with  a  rope  it  would 
swing  clear  of  obstructions  here,  and  might  bring  the  rescuer 
w^ithin  touch  of  the  pine,  where  could  be  fastened  the  guy- 
rope;  the  other  end  would  be  affixed  to  the  chair  which 
could  be  lowered  to  the  cabin  only  from  the  rugged  face  of 
the  cliff.  Kennedy  harbored  no  self-deception;  he  more 
than  doubted  the  outcome  of  the  enterprise.  He  quaked 
and  turned  pale  with  dread  as  with  the  great  rope  knotted 
about  his  arm-pits  and  around  his  waist  he  was  swung  over 
the  brink  at  the  point  where  the  crag  jutted  forth, — lower 
and  lower  still;  now  nearing  the  slanting  inverted  pine, 
caught  amidst  the  debris  of  earth  and  rock;  now  failing  to 
reach  its  boughs;  once  more  swinging  back  to  a  great 
distance,  so  did  the  length  of  the  rope  increase  the  scope 
of  the  pendulum;  now  nearing  the  pine  again,  and  at  last 
fairly  lodged  on  the  icy  bole,  knotting  and  coiling  about  it 
the  end  of  the  guy-rope,  on  which  he  had  come  and  on  which 
he  must  needs  return. 

It  seemed,  through  the  inexpert  handling  of  the  little 
group,  a  long  time  before  the  stout  arm-chair  was  secured 
to  the  cables,  slowly  lowered,  and  landed  at  last  on  the 
outside  of  the  hut.  Many  an  anxious  glance  was  cast  at 
the  slate-gray  sky.  An  inopportune  flurry  of  snow,  a  flaw 
of  wind, — and  even  now  all  would  be  lost.  Dusk  too  im- 
pended, and  as  the  rope  began  to  coil  on  the  windlass  at 
the  signal  to  hoist,  every  eye  was  strained  to  discern  the 
identity  of  the  first  voyagers  in  this  aerial  journey, — the 
two  children,  securely  lashed  to  the  chair.    This  was  well, 


330  American  Literature 

— all  felt  that  both  parents  might  best  wait,  might  risk 
the  added  delay.  The  chair  came  swinging  easily,  swiftly, 
along  the  gradations  of  the  rise,  the  guy-rope  holding  it 
well  from  the  chances  of  contact  with  the  jagged  projec- 
tions of  the  face  of  the  cHff,  and  the  first  shout  of  triumph 
rang  sonorously  from  the  summit. 

When  next  the  chair  rested  on  the  cabin  beside  the 
window,  a  thrill  of  anxiety  and  anger  went  through  Ken- 
nedy's heart  to  note,  from  his  perch  on  the  leaning  pine, 
a  struggle  between  husband  and  wife  as  to  who  should  go 
first.  Each  was  eager  to  take  the  many  risks  incident  to 
the  long  wait  in  this  precarious  lodgment.  The  man  was 
the  stronger.  AureUa  was  forced  into  the  chair,  tied  fast, 
pushed  off,  waving  her  hand  to  her  husband,  shedding 
floods  of  tears,  looking  at  him  for  the  last  time,  as  she 
fancied,  and  calling  out  dismally,  ''Far'well,  Basil,  fare- 
well." 

Even  this  lugubrious  demonstration  could  not  damp 
the  spirits  of  the  men,  working  like  mad  at  the  windlass. 
They  were  jovial  enough  for  bursts  of  laughter  when  it 
became  apparent  that  Basil  had  utilized  the  ensuing  in- 
terval to  tie  together,  in  preparation  for  the  ascent  with 
himself,  the  two  objects  which  he  next  most  treasured,  his 
violin  and  his  old  hound.  The  trusty  chair  bore  all  aloft, 
and  Basil  was  received  with  welcoming  acclamations. 

Before  the  rope  was  wound  anew  and  for  the  last  time, 
the  aspect  of  the  group  on  the  cliff  had  changed.  It  had 
grown  eerie,  indistinct.  .  .  .  The  vale  had  disappeared  in 
a  sinister  abyss  of  gloom,  though  Kennedy  would  not  look 
down  at  its  menace,  but  upward,  always  upward.  .  .  . 
Now  several  drew  together,  and  Uke  a  constellation  glim- 
mered crown-like  on  the  brow  of  the  night,  as  he  felt  the 
rope  stir  with  the  signal  to  hoist. 

Upward,  always  upward,  his  eyes  on  that  radiant  stel- 
lular coronal,  as  it  shone  white  and  splendid  in  the  snowy 
night.  And  now  it  had  lost  its  mystic  glamour, — disin- 
tegrated by  gradual  approach  he  could  see  the  long  handles 
of  the  pine-knots;  the  red  verges  of  the  flame;  the  blue 
and  yellow  tones  of  the  focus;  the  trailing  wreaths  of  dun- 


Later  and  Present- Day  Writers  331 

tinted  smoke  that  rose  from  them.  Then  became  visible 
the  faces  of  the  men  who  held  them,  all  crowding  eagerly 
to  the  verge.  But  it  was  in  a  solemn  silence  that  he  was 
received;  a  drear  cold  darkness,  every  torch  being  struck 
downward  into  the  snow;  a  frantic  haste  in  unharnessing 
him  from  the  ropes,  for  he  was  almost  frozen.  .  .  . 

A  sudden  figure  started  up  with  streaming  white  hair 
and  patriarchal  beard. 

*'Will  ye  deny  es  ye  hev  hed  a  sign  from  the  heavens, 
Jubal  Kennedy?"  the  old  circuit-rider  straitly  demanded. 
"How  could  ye  hev  strengthened  yer  heart  fur  sech  a  deed 
onless  the  grace  o'  God  prevailed  mightily  within  ye? 
Inasmuch  as  ye  hev  done  it  unto  one  o'  the  least  o'  these 
my  brethren,  ye  hev  done  it  unto  me." 

"That  ain't  the  kind  o'  sign,  parson,"  Kennedy  faltered. 
"I  be  looking  fur  a  meracle  in  the  y earth  or  in  the  air, 
that  I  kin  view  or  hear." 

"The  kingdom  o'  Christ  is  a  spiritual  kingdom,"  said 
the  parson  solemnly.  "The  kingdom  of  Christ  is  a  spiritual 
kingdom,  an'  great  are  the  wonders  that  are  wrought 
therein." 


II.  Margaret  Wade  Deland  (1857-  )  was  born  in 
Pennsylvania.  She  spent  her  early  life  in  New  York  City  but 
now  lives  in  Boston.  Her  first  novel  John  Ward,  Preacher, 
published  in  1888,  at  once  made  her  popular.  She  has  since 
written  much  for  the  magazines  and  has  established  a  reputa- 
tion as  one  of  the  best  of  American  novelists.  (See  Bibliog- 
raphy, p^ge  361,  for  suggested  readings.) 


12.  Hamlin  Garland  (186a-  )  is  a  Wisconsin  author 
who  has  written  many  stories  dealing  with  country  life  in  the 
Middle  West.  Among  his  best-known  books  are  Main-Travelled 
Roads  and  Rose  of  Butcher's  Coolly.  (See  Bibliography,  page 
362,  for  suggested  readings.) 

13.  Ernest  Thompson-Seton  (i860-  )  is  an  animal  painter 
and  illustrator  as  well  as  a  writer  of  animal  stories.  He  lives  in 
New  York  City. 


332  American  Literature 

Raggylug 
the  story  of  a  cottontail  rabbit 

(From  WUd  Animals  I  Have  Known) 

The  rank  swamp  grass  bent  over  and  concealed  the 
snug  nest  where  Raggylug's  mother  had  hidden  him. 
She  had  partly  covered  him  with  some  of  the  bedding, 
and,  as  always,  her  last  warning  was  to  *4ay  low  and  say 
nothing,  whatever  happens."  .  .  . 

After  a  while  he  heard  a  strange  rustling  of  the  leaves  in 
the  near  thicket.  It  was  an  odd,  continuous  sound,  and 
though  it  went  this  way  and  that  way  and  came  ever 
nearer,  there  was  no  patter  of  feet  with  it.  Rag  had  hved 
his  whole  life  in  the  Swamp  (he  was  three  weeks  old)  and 
yet  had  never  heard  anything  like  this.  Of  course  his 
curiosity  was  greatly  aroused.  His  mother  had  cautioned 
him  to  lay  low,  but  that  was  understood  to  be  in  case  of  dan- 
ger, and  this  strange  sound  without  foot-falls  could  not 
be  anything  to  fear. 

The  low  rasping  went  past  close  at  hand,  then  to  the 
right,  then  back,  and  seemed  going  away.  Rag  felt  he 
knew  what  he  was  about;  he  wasn't  a  baby;  it  was  his 
duty  to  learn  what  it  was.  He  slowly  raised  his  roly-poly 
body  on  his  short  fluffy  legs,  lifted  his  little  round  head 
above  the  covering  of  his  nest  and  peeped  out  into  the 
woods.  The  sound  had  ceased  as  soon  as  he  moved.  He 
saw  nothing,  so  took  one  step  forward  to  a  clear  view,  and 
instantly  found  himself  face  to  face  with  an  enormous  Black 
Serpent. 

*' Mammy,"  he  screamed  in  mortal  terror  as  the  monster 
darted  at  him.  With  all  the  strength  of  his  tiny  limbs 
he  tried  to  run.  But  in  a  flash  the  Snake  had  him  by  one 
ear  and  whipped  around  him  with  his  coils  to  gloat  over 
the  helpless  little  baby  bunny  he  had  secured  for  dinner. 

"Mam-my — Mam-my,"  gasped  poor  little  Raggylug 
as  the  cruel  monster  began  slowly  choking  him  to  death. 
Very  soon  the  little  one's  cry  would  have  ceased,  but 


Later  and  Present- Day  Writers  33S 

bounding  through  the  woods  straight  as  an  arrow  came 
Mammy.  .  .  .  The  cry  of  her  baby  had  filled  her  with 
the  courage  of  a  hero,  and — ^hop,  she  went  over  that  hor- 
rible reptile.  Whack,  she  struck  down  at  him  with  her 
sharp  hind  claws  as  she  passed,  giving  him  such  a  stinging 
blow  that  he  squirmed  with  pain  and  hissed  with  anger. 

*'M-a-m-m-y,"  came  feebly  from  the  little  one.  And 
Mammy  came  leaping  again  and  again  and  struck  harder 
and  fiercer  until  the  loathsome  reptile  let  go  the  Httle  one's 
ear  and  tried  to  bite  the  old  one  as  she  leaped  over.  But 
all  he  got  was  a  mouthful  of  wool  each  time,  and  Molly's 
fierce  blows  began  to  tell,  as  long  bloody  rips  were  torn  in 
the  Black  Snake's  scaly  armor. 

Things  were  now  looking  bad  for  the  Snake ;  and  bracing 
himself  for  the  next  charge,  he  lost  his  tight  hold  on  Baby 
Bunny,  who  at  once  wriggled  out  of  the  coils  and  away  into 
the  underbrush,  breathless  and  terribly  frightened,  but 
unhurt  save  that  his  left  ear  was  much  torn  by  the  teeth 
of  that  dreadful  Serpent. 

Molly  now  had  gained  all  she  wanted.  She  had  no 
notion  of  fighting  for  glory  or  revenge.  Away  she  went 
into  the  woods  and  the  Uttle  one  followed  the  shining 
beacon  of  her  snow-white  tail  until  she  led  him  to  a  safe 
comer  of  the  Swamp. 

14.  John  Fox,  Jr.  (1861-  ),  has  written  both  short 
stories  and  novels  dealing  chiefly  with  life  in  Kentucky.  The 
Trail  of  the  Lonesome  Pine,  one  of  his  most  popular  works,  has 
been  successfully  dramatized. 

The  Lonesome  Pine 

(From  The  Trail  of  the  Lonesome  Pine,  Chapter  II) 

He  had  seen  the  big  pine  when  he  first  came  to  those 
hills — one  morning,  at  daybreak,  when  the  valley  was  a 
sea  of  mist  that  threw  soft  clinging  spray  to  the  very  moun- 
tain tops:  for  even  above  the  mists,  that  morning,  its 
mighty  head  arose — sole  visible  proof  that  the  earth  still 
slept  beneath.     Straightway,  he  wondered  how  it  had  ever 


S34  American  Literature 

got  there,  so  far  above  the  few  of  its  kind  that  haunted 
the  green  dark  ravines  far  below.  Some  whirlwind,  doubt- 
less, had  sent  a  tiny  cone  circling  heavenward  and  dropped 
it  there.  It  had  sent  others,  too,  no  doubt,  but  how  had 
this  tree  faced  wind  and  storm  alone  and  alone  hved  to 
defy  both  so  proudly  ?  Some  day  he  would  learn.  There- 
after, he  had  seen  it,  at  noon — but  Httle  less  majestic 
among  the  oaks  that  stood  about  it;  had  seen  it  catching 
the  last  light  at  sunset,  clean-cut  against  the  after-glow, 
and  like  a  dark,  silent,  mysterious  sentinel  guarding  the 
mountain  pass  under  the  moon.  He  had  seen  it  giving 
place  with  sombre  dignity  to  the  passing  burst  of  spring — 
had  seen  it  green  among  dying  autumn  leaves,  green  in 
the  gray  of  winter  trees  and  still  green  in  a  shroud  of  snow 
— a  changeless  promise  that  the  earth  must  wake  to  life 
again.  The  Lonesome  Pine,  the  mountaineers  called  it, 
and  the  Lonesome  Pine  it  always  looked  to  be.  From  the 
beginning  it  had  a  curious  fascination  for  him,  and  straight- 
way within  him — half  exile  that  he  was — there  sprang 
up  a  sympathy  for  it  as  for  something  that  was  human  and 
a  brother.  And  now  he  was  on  the  trail  of  it  at  last. 
From  every  point  that  morning  it  had  seemed  almost  to 
nod  down  to  him  as  he  climbed,  and,  when  he  reached  the 
ledge  that  gave  him  sight  of  it  from  base  to  crown,  the 
winds  murmured  among  its  needles  hke  a  welcoming  voice. 
At  once,  he  saw  the  secret  of  its  life.  On  each  side  rose  a 
clifif  that  had  sheltered  it  from  storms  until  its  trunk  had 
shot  upwards  so  far  and  so  straight  and  so  strong  that  its 
green  crown  could  lift  itself  on  and  on  and  bend — blow 
what  might — as  proudly  and  securely  as  a  lily  on  its  stalk 
in  a  morning  breeze.  Dropping  his  bridle  rein,  he  put 
one  hand  against  it  as  though  on  the  shoulder  of  a  friend. 

*'01d  Man,"  he  said,  "you  must  be  pretty  lonesome  up 
here,  and  I'm  glad  to  meet  you." 

For  a  while  he  sat  against  it,  resting.  He  had  no  par- 
ticular purpose  that  day — no  particular  destination.  His 
saddle-bags  were  across  the  cantle  of  his  cow-boy  saddle. 
His  fishing  rod  was  tied  under  one  flap.  He  was  young 
and  his  own  master.    Time  was  hanging  heavy  on  his 


Later  and  Present- Day  Writers  335 

hands  that  day  and  he  loved  the  woods  and  the  nooks  and 
the  crannies  of  them  where  his  own  kind  rarely  made  its 
way.  Beyond,  the  cove  looked  dark,  forbidding,  mys- 
terious, and  what  was  beyond  he  did  not  know.  So  down 
there  he  would  go.  As  he  bent  his  head  forward  to  rise, 
his  eye  caught  the  spot  of  sunlight,  and  he  leaned  over  it 
with  a  smile.  In  the  black  earth  was  a  human  foot-print 
— too  small  and  slender  for  the  foot  of  a  man,  a  boy,  or 
a  woman.  Beyond,  the  same  prints  were  visible — wider 
apart — and  he  smiled  again.  A  girl  had  been  there.  She 
was  the  crimson  flash  that  he  saw  as  he  started  up  the 
steep  and  mistook  it  for  a  flaming  bush  of  sumach.  She 
had  seen  him  coming  and  she  had  fled.  Still  smiling  he 
rose  to  his  feet. 

15.  Mary  E.  Wilkins  Freeman  (1862-  )  is  famous  for 
her  sympathetic  and  accurate  portrayal  of  New  England  life 
and  character.  Her  best  work  is  to  be  found  in  her  short 
stories  in  the  two  volumes  A  New  England  Nun  and  Silence 
and  Other  Tales.  (See  Bibliography,  page  362,  for  suggested 
readings.) 

16.  Edith  Wharton  (1862-  ),  a  New  York  author  of 
distinction,  is  one  of  our  best  writers  of  both  short  stories  and 
novels.  Her  best  novels  are,  perhaps,  The  Valley  of  Decision, 
The  House  of  Mirth,  and  The  Fruit  of  the  Tree,  She  has  also 
written  some  notable  poems. 

The  Fulness  of  Life 

She  stood,  as  it  seemed,  on  a  threshold,  yet  no  tangible 
gateway  was  in  front  of  her.  Only  a  wide  vista  of  light, 
mild  yet  penetrating  as  the  gathered  glimmer  of  innumer- 
able stars,  expanded  gradually  before  her  eyes,  in  blissful 
contrast  to  the  cavernous  darkness  from  which  she  had  of 
late  emerged. 

She  stepped  forward,  not  frightened,  but  hesitating,  a^d 
as  her  eyes  began  to  grow  more  familiar  with  the  melting 
depths  of  light  about  her,  she  distinguished  the  outlines 
of  a  landscape,  at  first  swimming  in  the  opaUne  uncer- 
tainty  of    Shelley's   vaporous    creations,    then   gradually 


336  American  Literature 

resolved  into  distincter  shape — the  vast  unrolling  of  a 
sunlit  plain,  aerial  forms  of  mountains,  and  presently  the 
silver  crescent  of  a  river  in  the  valley,  and  a  blue  sten- 
cilling of  trees  along  its  curve — something  suggestive  in 
its  ineffable  hue  of  an  azure  background  of  Leonardo's, 
strange,  enchanting,  mysterious,  leading  on  the  eye  and 
the  imagination  into  regions  of  fabulous  delight.  As  she 
gazed,  her  heart  beat  with  a  soft  and  rapturous  surprise; 
so  exquisite  a  promise  she  read  in  the  summons  of  that 
hyaline  distance. 

^'And  so  death  is  not  the  end  after  all,"  in  sheer  glad- 
ness she  heard  herself  exclaiming  aloud.  ^'I  always  knew 
that  it  couldn't  be.  I  believed  in  Darwin,  of  course.  I 
do  still;  but  then  Darwin  himself  said  that  he  wasn't 
sure  about  the  soul — at  least,  I  think  he  did — and  Wallace 
was  a  spiritualist;  and  then  there  was  St.  George 
Mivart " 

Her  gaze  lost  itself  in  the  ethereal  remoteness  of  the 
mountains. 

"How  beautiful!  How  satisfying!"  she  murmured. 
"Perhaps  now  I  shall  really  know  what  it  is  to  live." 

As  she  spoke  she  felt  a  sudden  thickening  of  her  heart- 
beats, and  looking  up  she  was  aware  that  before  her  stood 
the  Spirit  of  Life. 

"Have  you  never  really  known  what  it  is  to  live?"  the 
Spirit  of  Life  asked  her. 

"I  have  never  known,"  she  replied,  "that  fulness  of 
life  which  we  all  feel  ourselves  capable  of  knowing;  though 
my  life  has  not  been  without  scattered  hints  of  it,  like  the 
scent  of  earth  which  comes  to  one  sometimes  far  out  at  sea." 

"And  what  do  you  call  the  fulness  of  life?"  the  Spirit 
asked  again. 

"Oh,  I  can't  tell  you,  if  you  don't  know,"  she  said 
almost  reproachfully.  "  Many  words  are  supposed  to  define 
it — love  and  sympathy  are  those  in  commonest  use,  but 
I  am  not  even  sure  that  they  are  the  right  ones,  and  so  few 
people  really  know  what  they  mean." 

"You  were  married,"  said  the  Spirit,  "yet  you  did  not 
find  the  fulness  of  life  in  your  marriage  ?  " 


Later  and  Present- Day  Writers  337 

"Oh,  dear,  no,"  she  repHed,  with  an  indulgent  scorn, 
"my  marriage  was  a  very  incomplete  affair." 

"And  yet  you  were  fond  of  your  husband?" 

"You  have  hit  upon  the  exact  word;  I  was  fond  of  him, 
yes,  just  as  I  was  fond  of  my  grandmother,  and  the  house 
that  I  was  born  in,  and  my  old  nurse.  Oh,  I  was  fond  of 
him,  and  we  were  counted  a  very  happy  couple."  .  .  . 

"Then,"  the  Spirit  continued,  "those  moments  of  which 
you  lately  spoke,  which  seemed  to  come  to  you  like  scat- 
tered hints  of  the  fulness  of  life,  were  not  shared  with  your 
husband?" 

"Oh,  no — never.  He  was  different.  His  boots  creaked, 
and  he  always  slammed  the  door  when  he  went  out,  and 
he  never  read  anything  but  railway  novels  and  the  sporting 
advertisements  in  the  papers — and — and,  in  short,  we  never 
understood  each  other  in  the  least." 

"To  what  influence,  then,  did  you  owe  those  exquisite 
sensations?" 

"I  can  hardly  tell.  Sometimes  to  the  perfume  of  a 
flower;  sometimes  to  a  verse  of  Dante  or  of  Shakespeare; 
sometimes  to  a  picture  or  a  sunset,  or  to  one  of  those  calm 
days  at  sea,  when  one  seems  to  be  lying  in  the  hollow  of  a 
blue  pearl;  sometimes,  but  rarely,  to  a  word  spoken  by 
someone  who  chanced  to  give  utterance,  at  the  right 
moment,  to  what  I  felt  but  could  not  express." 

"Someone  whom  you  loved?"  asked  the  Spirit. 

"I  never  loved  anyone,  in  that  way,"  she  said,  rather 
sadly,  ",nor  was  I  thinking  of  any  one  person  when  I  spoke, 
but  of  two  or  three  who,  by  touching  for  an  instant  upon 
a  certain  chord  of  my  being,  had  called  forth  a  single  note 
of  that  strange  melody  which  seemed  sleeping  in  my  soul." 

.  .  .  Then  the  Spirit  of  Life  said:  "There  is  a  compen- 
sation in  store  for  such  needs  as  you  have  expressed." 

"Oh,  then  you  do  understand?"  she  exclaimed.  "Tell 
me  what  compensation,  I  entreat  you  ! " 

"It  is  ordained,"  the  Spirit  answered,  "that  every  soul 
which  seeks  in  vain  on  earth  for  a  kindred  soul  to  whom  it 
can  lay  bare  its  inmost  being  shall  find  that  soul  here  and 
be  united  to  it  for  eternity." 


338  American  Literature 

A  glad  cry  broke  from  her  lips. 

^'Ah,  shall  I  find  him  at  last?"  she  cried,  exultant. 

*'He  is  here,"  said  the  Spirit  of  Life. 

She  looked  up  and  saw  that  a  man  stood  near  whose 
soul  (for  in  that  unwonted  Hght  she  seemed  to  see  his  soul 
more  clearly  than  his  face)  drew  her  toward  him  with  an 
invincible  force. 

"Are  you  really  he?"  she  murmured. 

"I  am  he,"  he  answered. 

She  laid  her  hand  in  his  and  drew  him  toward  the  parapet 
which  overhung  the  valley. 

** Shall  we  go  down  together,"  she  asked  him,  "into  that 
marvellous  country;  shall  we  see  it  together  as  if  with  the 
self-same  eyes,  and  tell  each  other  in  the  same  words  all 
that  we  think  and  feel?" 

"So,"  he  replied,  "have  I  hoped  and  dreamed." 

"What?"  she  asked  with  rising  joy.  "Then  you,  too, 
have  looked  for  me?" 

"Allmyhfe." 

"How  wonderful !  And  did  you  never,  never  find  any- 
one in  the  other  world  who  understood  you?" 

"Not  wholly — not  as  you  and  I  understand  each  other." 

"Then  you  feel  it,  too?    Oh,  I  am  happy,"  she  sighed. 

They  stood,  hand  in  hand,  looking  down  over  the  parapet 
upon  the  shimmering  landscape  which  stretched  forth 
beneath  them  into  sapphirine  space,  and  the  Spirit  of 
Life,  who  kept  watch  near  the  threshold,  heard  now  and 
then  a  floating  fragment  of  their  talk  blown  backward  Hke 
the  stray  swallows  which  the  wind  sometimes  separates 
from  their  migratory  tribe.  ...  At  length,  with  a  certain 
tender  impatience,  he  turned  to  her  and  said:  "Love,  why 
should  we  linger  here?  All  eternity  lies  before  us.  Let 
us  go  down  into  that  beautiful  country  together  and  make 
a  home  for  ourselves  on  some  blue  hill  above  the  shining 
river."  .  .  . 

"A  home,"  she  repeated  slowly,  "a  home  for  you  and 
me  to  live  in  for  all  eternity?" 

"Why  not,  love?  Am  I  not  the  soul  that  yours  has 
sought?" 


Later  and  Present-Day  Writers  339 

"Y-yes — yes,  I  know — but,  don't  you  see,  home  would 
not  be  like  home  to  me,  unless " 

^'Unless?"  he  wonderingly  repeated. 

She  did  not  answer,  but  she  thought  to  herself,  with  an 
impulse  of  whimsical  inconsistency,  ''Unless  you  slammed 
the  door  and  wore  creaking  boots."  .  .  . 

"Come,  O  my  soul's  soul,"  he  passionately  implored; 
*'why  delay  a  moment?  Surely  you  feel,  as  I  do,  that 
eternity  itself  is  too  short  to  hold  such  bliss  as  ours."  .  .  . 

She  made  no  answer  to  his  pleadings,  but  at  length, 
rousing  herself  with  a  visible  effort,  she  turned  away  from 
him  and  moved  toward  the  Spirit  of  Life,  who  still  stood 
near  the  threshold. 

''I  want  to  ask  you  a  question,"  she  said  in  a  troubled 
voice. 

''Ask,"  said  the  Spirit. 

"A  little  while  ago,"  she  began,  slowly,  "you  told  me 
that  every  soul  which  has  not  found  a  kindred  soul  on 
earth  is  destined  to  find  one  here." 

"And  have  you  not  found  one?"  asked  the  Spirit. 

"Yes;   but  will  it  be  so  with  my  husband's  soul  also?" 

"No,"  answered  the  Spirit  of  Life,  "for  your  husband 
imagined  that  he  had  found  his  soul's  mate  on  earth  in  you; 
and  for  such  delusions  eternity  itself  contains  no  cure." 

She  gave  a  little  cry.  Was  it  of  disappointment  or  tri- 
umph? 

"Then — then  what  will  happen  to  him  when  he  comes 
here?", 

"That  I  cannot  tell  you.  Some  field  of  activity  and 
happiness  he  will  doubtless  find,  in  due  measure  to  his  ca- 
pacity for  being  active  and  happy." 

She  interrupted,  almost  angrily: 

"He  will  never  be  happy  without  me." 

"Do  not  be  too  sure  of  that,"  said  the  Spirit. 

She  took  no  notice  of  this,  and  the  Spirit  continued:  "He 
will  not  understand  you  here  any  better  than  he  did  on 
earth." 

"No  matter,"  she  said;  "I  shall  be  the  only  sufferer,  for 
he  always  thought  that  he  understood  me." 


340  American  Literature 

"His  boots  will  creak  just  as  much  as  ever- 
''No  matter." 

"And  he  will  slam  the  door " 

"Very  likely." 


"And  continue  to  read  railway  novels " 

She  interposed,  impatiently:  "Many  men  do  worse  than 
that." 

"But  you  said  just  now,"  said  the  Spirit,  "that  you  did 
not  love  him." 

"True,"  she  answered,  simply;  "but  don't  you  imder- 
stand  that  I  shouldn't  feel  at  home  without  him?  It  is 
all  very  well  for  a  week  or  two — but  for  eternity !  After 
all,  I  never  minded  the  creaking  of  his  boots,  except  when 
mv  head  ached,  and  I  don't  suppose  it  will  ache  here;  and 
he  was  always  so  sorry  when  he  had  slammed  the  door, 
only  he  never  could  remember  not  to.  Besides,  no  one  else 
would  know  how  to  look  after  him,  he  is  so  helpless.  His 
inkstand  would  never  be  filled,  and  he  would  always  be 
out  of  stamps  and  visiting-cards.  He  would  never  re- 
member to  have  his  umbrella  re-covered,  or  to  ask  the 
price  of  anything  before  he  bought  it.  Why,  he  wouldn't 
even  know  what  novels  to  read.  I  always  had  to  choose 
the  kind  he  liked,  with  a  murder  or  a  forgery  and  a  success- 
ful detective." 

She  turned  abruptly  to  her  kindred  soul,  who  stood  listen- 
ing with  a  mien  of  dismay. 

"Don't  you  see,"  she  said,  "that  I  can't  possibly  go  with 
you?" 

"But  what  do  you  intend  to  do?"  asked  the  Spirit  of 
Life. 

"What  do  I  intend  to  do?"  she  returned,  indignantly. 
"Why,  I  mean  to  wait  for  my  husband,  of  course.  If  he 
had  come  here  first  he  would  have  waited  for  me  for  years 
and  years;  and  it  would  break  his  heart  not  to  find  me  here 
when  he  comes."  .  .  . 

"But,  consider,"  warned  the  Spirit,  "that  you  are  now 
choosing  for  eternity.     It  is  a  solenm  moment." 

"Choosing!"  she  said  with  a  half-sad  smile.  .  .  .  "He 
will  expect  to  find  me  here  when  he  comes,  and  he  would 


Later  and  Present- Day  Writers  341 

never  believe  you  if  you  told  him  that  I  had  gone  away  with 
some  one  else — never,  never." 

"So  be  it,"  said  the  Spirit.  "Here  as  on  earth,  each  one 
must  decide  for  himself." 

She  turned  to  her  kindred  soul  and  looked  at  him 
gently,  almost  wistfully.  "I  am  sorry,"  she  said.  "I, 
should  have  liked  to  talk  with  you  again;  but  you  will  under- 
stand, I  know,  and  I  dare  say  you  will  find  someone  else  a 
great  deal  cleverer " 

And  without  pausing  to  hear  his  answer  she  waved  him 
a  swift  farewell  and  turned  back  toward  the  threshold. 

"Will  my  husband  come  soon?"  she  asked  the  Spirit  of 
Life. 

"That  you  are  not  destined  to  know,"  the  Spirit  replied. 

"No  matter,"  she  said,  cheerfully;  "I  have  all  eternity 
to  wait  in." 

And  still  seated  alone  on  the  threshold,  she  listens  for  the 
creaking  of  his  boots. 

17.  Richard  Harding  Davis  (1864-  )  inherited  his  gift 
from  his  mother  Rebecca  Harding  Davis,  a  novelist  of  some 
note.  For  many  years  he  was  a  New  York  journalist.  He  is 
famous  for  his  short  stories,  among  which  Van  Bibber  and  Others 
and  Gallagher  are  the  most  popular.  As  a  newspaper  corre- 
spondent he  has  won  many  laurels.  He  was  war  correspondent 
during  the  Spanish-American  War  and  was  in  Belgium  during 
the  early  weeks  of  the  great  European  War  (1914),  concerning 
which  he  has  written  many  interesting  articles  for  the  news- 
papers and  magazines. 

Mr.  Traverses  First  Hunt 

(From  Van  Bibber  and  Others) 

Young  Travers,  who  had  been  engaged  to  a  girl  down 
on  Long  Island  for  the  last  three  months,  only  met  her 
father  and  brother  a  few  weeks  before  the  day  set  for 
the  wedding.  .  .  .  Old  Mr.  Paddock,  the  father  of  the  girl 
to  whom  Travers  was  engaged,  had  often  said  that  when  a 
young  man  asked  him  for  his  daughter's  hand  he  would 
ask  him  in  return,  not  if  he  had  lived  straight,  but  if  he 
could  ride  straight.     And  on  his  answering  this  question 


342  American  Literature 

in  the  affirmative  depended  his  gaining  her  parent's  con- 
sent. Travers  had  met  Miss  Paddock  and  her  mother  in 
Europe,  while  the  men  of  the  family  were  at  home.  He 
was  invited  to  their  place  in  the  fall  when  the  hunting 
season  opened,  and  spent  the  evening  most  pleasantly 
and  satisfactorily  with  Yds  fiancee  in  a  corner  of  the  drawing- 
room.  But  as  soon  as  the  women  had  gone,  young  Pad- 
dock joined  him  and  said,  ''You  ride,  of  course?"  Travers 
had  never  ridden;  but  he  had  been  prompted  how  to 
answer  by  Miss  Paddock,  and  so  said  there  was  nothing 
he  liked  better.  As  he  expressed  it,  he  would  rather  ride 
than  sleep. 

"That's  good,"  said  Paddock.  "I'll  give  you  a  mount 
on  Satan  to-morrow  morning  at  the  meet.  He  is  a  bit 
nasty  at  the  start  of  the  season;  and  ever  since  he  killed 
Wallis,  the  second  groom,  last  year,  none  of  us  care  much 
to  ride  him.  But  you  can  manage  him,  no  doubt.  He'll 
just  carry  your  weight." 

Mr.  Travers  dreamed  that  night  of  taking  large,  des- 
perate leaps  into  space  on  a  wild  horse  that  snorted  forth 
flames,  and  that  rose  at  solid  stone  walls  as  though  they 
were  hayricks. 

He  was  tempted  to  say  he  was  ill  in  the  morning — which 
was,  considering  his  state  of  mind,  more  or  less  true — but 
concluded  that,  as  he  would  have  to  ride  sooner  or  later 
during  his  visit,  and  that  if  he  did  break  his  neck  it  would 
be  in  a  good  cause,  he  determined  to  do  his  best.  He  did 
not  want  to  ride  at  all,  for  two  excellent  reasons — first, 
because  he  wanted  to  live  for  Miss  Paddock's  sake,  and, 
second,  because  he  wanted  to  live  for  his  own. 

The  next  morning  ...  he  came  down-stairs  looking  very 
miserable  indeed.  Satan  had  been  taken  to  the  place 
where  they  were  to  meet,  and  Travers  viewed  him  on  his 
arrival  there  with  a  sickening  sense  of  fear  as  he  saw  him 
pulling  three  grooms  off  their  feet. 

Travers  decided  that  he  would  stay  with  his  feet  on  solid 
earth  just  as  long  as  he  could,  and  when  the  hounds  were 
thrown  off  and  the  rest  had  started  at  a  gallop  he  waited, 
under  the  pretence  of  adjusting  his  gaiters,  until  they  were 
all  well  away.     Then  he  clenched  his  teeth,  crammed  his 


Later  and  Present- Day  Writers  348 

hat  down  over  his  ears,  and  scrambled  up  on  to  the  saddle. 
His  feet  fell  quite  by  accident  into  the  stirrups,  and  the 
next  instant  he  was  off  after  the  others,  with  an  indistinct 
feeling  that  he  was  on  a  locomotive  that  was  jumping  the 
ties.  Satan  was  in  among  and  had  passed  the  other  horses 
in  less  than  five  minutes,  and  was  so  close  on  the  hounds 
that  the  whippers-in  gave  a  cry  of  warning.  But  Travers 
could  as  soon  have  pulled  a  boat  back  from  going  over 
the  Niagara  Falls  as  Satan,  and  it  was  only  because  the 
hounds  were  well  ahead  that  saved  them  from  having 
Satan  ride  them  down.  Travers  had  taken  hold  of  the 
saddle  with  his  left  hand  to  keep  himself  down,  and  sawed 
and  swayed  on  the  reins  with  his  right.  He  shut  his  eyes 
whenever  Satan  jumped,  and  never  knew  how  he  hap- 
pened to  stick  on;  but  he  did  stick  on,  and  was  so  far  ahead 
that  no  one  could  see  in  the  misty  morning  just  how  badly 
he  rode.  As  it  was,  for  daring  and  speed  he  led  the  field, 
and  not  even  young  Paddock  was  near  him  from  the  start. 
There  was  a  broad  stream  in  front  of  him,  and  a  hill  just 
on  its  other  side.  No  one  had  ever  tried  to  take  this  at 
a  jump.  It  was  considered  more  of  a  swim  than  anything 
else,  and  the  hunters  always  crossed  it  by  the  bridge, 
towards  the  left.  Travers  saw  the  bridge  and  tried  to 
jerk  Satan's  head  in  that  direction;  but  Satan  kept  right 
on  as  straight  as  an  express  train  over  the  prairie.  Fences 
and  trees  and  furrows  passed  by  and  under  Travers  like 
a  panorama  run  by  electricity,  and  he  only  breathed  by 
accident.  They  went  on  at  the  stream  and  the  hill  beyond 
as  though  they  were  riding  at  a  stretch  of  turf,  and,  though 
the  whole  field  set  up  a  shout  of  warning  and  dismay,  Trav- 
ers could  only  gasp  and  shut  his  eyes.  He  remembered 
the  fate  of  the  second  groom  and  shivered.  Then  the 
horse  rose  like  a  rocket,  lifting  Travers  so  high  in  the  air 
that  he  thought  Satan  would  never  come  down  again; 
but  he  did  come  down,  with  his  feet  bunched,  on  the  oppo- 
site side  of  the  stream.  The  next  instant  he  was  up  and 
over  the  hill,  and  had  stopped  panting  in  the  very  center 
of  the  pack  that  were  snarHng  and  snapping  around  the 
fox.     And  then  Travers  showed  that  he  was  a  thorough- 


344  American  Literature 

bred,  even  though  he  could  not  ride,  for  he  hastily  fumbled 
for  his  cigar-case,  and  when  the  field  came  pounding  up 
over  the  bridge  and  around  the  hill,  they  saw  him  seated 
nonchalantly  on  his  saddle,  puffing  critically  at  a  cigar 
and  giving  Satan  patronizing  pats  on  the  head. 

"My  dear  girl,"  said  old  Mr.  Paddock  to  his  daughter 
as  they  rode  back,  "if  you  love  that  young  man  of  yours 
and  want  to  keep  him,  make  him  promise  to  give  up  rid- 
ing. A  more  reckless  and  more  brilliant  horseman  I  have 
never  seen.  He  took  that  double  jump  at  the  gate  and 
that  stream  like  a  centaur.  But  he  will  break  his  neck 
sooner  or  later,  and  he  ought  to  be  stopped."  Young 
Paddock  was  so  dehghted  with  his  prospective  brother-in- 
law's  great  riding  that,  that  night  in  the  smoking-room  he 
made  him  a  present  of  Satan  before  all  the  men. 

"No,"  said  Travers,  gloomily,  "I  can't  take  him.  Your 
sister  has  asked  me  to  give  up  what  is  dearer  to  me  than 
anything  next  to  herself,  and  that  is  my  riding.  You  see, 
she  is  absurdly  anxious  for  my  safety,  and  she  has  asked 
me  to  promise  never  to  ride  again,  and  I  have  given  my 
word." 

A  chorus  of  sympathetic  remonstrances  rose  from  the 
men. 

"Yes,  I  know,"  said  Travers  to  her  brother,  "it  is  rough, 
but  it  just  shows  what  sacrifices  a  man  will  make  for  the 
woman  he  loves." 

i8.  Frank  Norris  (1870-1902),  a  journalist  residing  in  Cal- 
ifornia at  the  time  of  his  death,  was  one  of  the  most  promising 
of  the  younger  group  of  novelists.  He  attained  distinction 
through  The  Octopus  (1901),  which  was  the  first  of  a  series  of 
three  novels  in  which  he  planned  "  the  epic  of  the  wheat."  The 
second  story,  The  Pit,  came  out  in  1903,  but  the  last  one  planned, 
The  Wolff  was  never  written. 

The  Wheat  Pit 

(From  The  Pit,  Chapter  HI) 

It  was  a  vast  enclosure,  lighted  on  either  side  by  great 
windows  of  coloured  glass,   the  roof  supported  by  thin 


Later  and  Present- Day  Writers  345 

iron  pillars  elaborately  decorated.  To  the  left  were  the 
bulletin  blackboards,  and  beyond  these,  in  the  northwest 
angle  of  the  floor,  a  great  railed-in  space  where  the  Western 
Union  Telegraph  was  installed.  To  the  right,  on  the 
other  side  of  the  room,  a  row  of  tables,  laden  with  neatly 
arranged  paper  bags,  half  full  of  samples  of  grains,  stretched 
along  the  east  wall  from  the  doorway  of  the  public  room 
at  one  end  to  the  telephone  room  at  the  other. 

The  centre  of  the  floor  was  occupied  by  the  pits.  To 
the  left  and  to  the  front  of  Landry  the  provision  pit,  to 
the  right  the  corn  pit,  while  further  on  at  the  north  ex- 
tremity of  the  floor,  and  nearly  under  the  visitors'  gallery, 
much  larger  than  the  other  two,  and  flanked  by  the  wicket 
of  the  offlcial  recorder,  was  the  wheat  pit  itself. 

Directly  opposite  the  visitors'  gallery,  high  upon  the 
south  wall,  a  great  dial  was  affixed,  and  on  the  dial  a  mark- 
ing hand  that  indicated  the  current  price  of  wheat,  fluc- 
tuating with  the  changes  made  in  the  Pit.  Just  now  it 
stood  at  ninety- three  and  three-eighths,  the  closing  quo- 
tation of  the  preceding  day. 

As  yet  all  the  pits  were  empty.  It  was  some  fifteen 
minutes  after  nine.  Landry  checked  his  hat  and  coat  at 
the  coat  room  near  the  north  entrance,  and  sHpped  into 
an  old  tennis  jacket  of  striped  blue  flannel.  Then,  hatless, 
his  hands  in  his  pockets,  he  leisurely  crossed  the  floor, 
and  sat  down  in  one  of  the  chairs  that  were  ranged  in  files 
upon  the  floor  in  front  of  the  telegraph  enclosure.  He 
scrutinised  again  the  despatches  and  orders  that  he  held 
in  his  hands;  then,  having  fixed  them  in  his  memory,  tore 
them  into  very  small  bits,  looking  vaguely  about  the  room, 
developing  his  plan  of  campaign  for  the  morning. 


Meanwhile  the  floor  was  beginning  to  fill  up.  Over  in 
the  railed-in  space,  where  the  hundreds  of  telegraph  in- 
struments were  in  place,  the  operators  were  arriving  in 
twos  and  threes.  They  hung  their  hats  and  ulsters  upon 
the  pegs  in  the  wall  back  of  them,  and  in  linen  coats,  or  in 
their  shirt-sleeves,  went  to  their  seats,  or,  sitting  upon  their 


346  American  Literature 

tables,  called  back  and  forth  to  each  other,  joshing,  crack- 
ing jokes.  Some  few  addressed  themselves  directly  to  work, 
and  here  and  there  the  intermittent  clicking  of  a  key  began, 
like  a  diligent  cricket  busking  himself  in  advance  of  its 
mates. 

From  the  corridors  on  the  ground  floor  up  through  the 
south  doors  came  the  pit  traders  in  increasing  groups. 
The  noise  of  footsteps  began  to  echo  from  the  high  vaulting 
of  the  roof.  A  messenger  boy  crossed  the  floor  chanting 
an  unintelHgible  name. 

The  groups  of  traders  gradually  converged  upon  the 
corn  and  wheat  pits,  and  on  the  steps  of  the  latter,  their 
arms  crossed  upon  their  knees,  two  men,  one  wearing  a 
silk  skull  cap  all  awry,  conversed  earnestly  in  low  tones. 

But  by  now  it  was  near  to  half-past  nine.  From  the 
Western  Union  desks  the  clicking  of  the  throng  of  instru- 
ments rose  into  the  air  in  an  incessant  staccato  stridula- 
tion.  The  messenger  boys  ran  back  and  forth  at  top  speed, 
dodging  in  and  out  among  the  knots  of  clerks  and  traders, 
colliding  with  one  another,  and  without  interruption  in- 
toning the  names  of  those  for  whom  they  had  despatches. 
The  throng  of  traders  concentrated  upon  the  pits,  and  at 
every  moment  the  deep-toned  hum  of  the  murmur  of  many 
voices  swelled  like  the  rising  of  a  tide. 

The  official  reporter  climbed  to  his  perch  in  the  little 
cage  on  the  edge  of  the  Pit,  shutting  the  door  after  him. 
By  now  the  chanting  of  the  messenger  boys  was  an  unin- 
terrupted chorus.  From  all  sides  of  the  building,  and  in 
every  direction,  they  crossed  and  recrossed  each  other,  al- 
ways running,  their  hands  full  of  yellow  envelopes.  From 
the  telephone  alcoves  came  the  prolonged,  musical  rasp 
of  the  call  bells.  In  the  Western  Union  booths  the  keys 
of  the  multitude  of  instruments  raged  incessantly.  Bare- 
headed young  men  hurried  up  to  one  another,  conferred 
an  instant  comparing  despatches,  then  separated,  darting 
away  at  top  speed.     Men  called  to  each  other  half-way 


Later  and  Present- Day  Writers  347 

across  the  building.  Over  by  the  bulletin  boards  clerks 
and  agents  made  careful  memoranda  of  primary  receipts, 
and  noted  down  the  amount  of  wheat  on  passage,  the  ex- 
ports and  the  imports. 

And  all  these  sounds,  the  clatter  of  the  telegraph,  the 
intoning  of  the  messenger  boys,  the  shouts  and  cries  of 
clerks  and  traders,  the  shuffle  and  trampling  of  hundreds 
of  feet,  the  whirring  of  telephone  signals  rose  into  the 
troubled  air,  and  mingled  overhead  to  form  a  vast  note, 
prolonged,  sustained,  that  reverberated  from  vault  to  vault 
of  the  airy  roof,  and  issued  from  every  doorway,  every 
opened  window  in  one  long  roll  of  uninterrupted  thunder. 
In  the  Wheat  Pit  the  bids,  no  longer  obedient  of  restraint, 
began  one  by  one  to  burst  out,  like  the  first  isolated  shots 
of  a  skirmish  Hne. 


Then  suddenly,  cutting  squarely  athwart  the  vague 
crescendo  of  the  floor,  came  the  single  incisive  stroke  of  a 
great  gong.  Instantly  a  tumult  was  unchained.  Arms 
were  flung  upward  in  strenuous  gestures,  and  from  above 
the  crowding  heads  in  the  Wheat  Pit  a  multitude  of  hands, 
eager,  the  fingers  extended,  leaped  into  the  air.  All 
articulate  expression  was  lost  in  the  single  explosion  of 
sound  as  the  traders  surged  downwards  to  the  centre  of 
the  Pit,  grabbing  each  other,  struggling  towards  each  other, 
tramping,  stamping,  charging  through  with  might  and 
main.  Promptly  the  hand  on  the  great  dial  above  the  clock 
stirred  and  trembled,  and  as  though  driven  by  the  tempest 
breath  of  the  Pit  moved  upward  through  the  degrees  of 
its  circle.  It  paused,  wavered,  stopped  at  length,  and 
on  the  instant  the  hundreds  of  telegraph  keys  scattered 
throughout  the  building  began  chcking  off  the  news  to 
the  whole  country,  from  the  Atlantic  to  the  Pacific  and 
from  Mackinac  to  Mexico,  that  the  Chicago  market  had 
made  a  slight  advance  and  that  May  wheat,  which  had 
closed  the  day  before  at  ninety-three  and  three-eighths, 
had  opened  that  morning  at  ninety-four  and  a  half. 


348  American  Literature 

By  degrees  the  clamour  died  away,  ceased,  began  again 
irregularly,  then  abruptly  stilled.  Here  and  there  a  bid 
was  called,  an  offer  made,  like  the  intermittent  crack  of 
small  arms  after  the  stopping  of  the  cannonade.  .  .  . 

For  an  instant  the  shoutings  were  renewed.  Then  sud- 
denly the  gong  struck.  The  traders  began  slowly  to  leave 
the  Pit.  One  of  the  floor  officers,  an  old  fellow  in  uniform 
and  vizored  cap,  appeared,  gently  shouldering  towards 
the  door  the  groups  wherein  the  bidding  and  offering  were 
still  languidly  going  on.  His  voice  full  of  remonstration 
he  repeated  continually:  "Time's  up,  gentlemen.  Go  on 
now  and  get  your  lunch.  Lunch  time  now.  Go  on  now, 
or  I'll  have  to  report  you.    Time's  up." 

The  tide  set  toward  the  doorways.  In  the  gallery  the 
few  visitors  rose,  putting  on  coats  and  wraps.  Over  by 
the  check  counter,  to  the  right  of  the  south  entrance  to 
the  floor,  a  throng  of  brokers  and  traders  jostled  each 
other,  reaching  over  one  another's  shoulders  for  hats  and 
ulsters.  In  steadily  increasing  numbers  they  poured  out 
of  the  north  and  south  entrances,  on  their  way  to  turn  in 
their  trading  cards  to  the  offices. 

Little  by  little  the  floor  emptied.  The  provision  and 
grain  pits  were  deserted,  and  as  the  clamour  of  the  place 
lapsed  away  the  telegraph  instruments  began  to  make 
themselves  heard  once  more,  together  with  the  chanting 
of  the  messenger  boys. 

Swept  clean  in  the  morning,  the  floor  itself,  seen  now 
through  the  thinning  groups,  was  littered  from  end  to  end 
with  scattered  grain — oats,  wheat,  corn,  and  barley,  with 
wisps  of  hay,  peanut  shells,  apple  parings,  and  orange  peel, 
with  torn  newspapers,  odds  and  ends  of  memoranda, 
crushed  paper  darts,  and  above  all  with  a  countless  multi- 
tude of  yellow  telegraph  forms,  thousands  upon  thousands, 
crumpled  and  muddied  under  the  trampling  of  innumer- 
able feet.  It  was  the  debris  of  the  battle-field,  the  aban- 
doned impedimenta  and  broken  weapons  of  contending 
armies,  the  detritus  of  conflict,  torn,  broken,  and  rent, 
that  at  the  end  of  each  day's  combat  encumbered  the 
field. 


Later  and  Present- Day  Writers  349' 

'At  last  even  the  click  of  the  last  telegraph  key  died  down. 
Shouldering  themselves  into  their  overcoats,  the  operators 
departed,  calling  back  and  forth  to  one  another,  making 
"dates,"  and  cracking  jokes.  Washerwomen  appeared 
with  steaming  pails;  porters  pushing  great  brooms  before 
them  began  gathering  the  refuse  of  the  floor  into  heaps. 


A  cat,  grey  and  striped,  wearing  a  dog  collar  of  nickel 
and  red  leather,  issued  from  the  coat  room  and  picked  her 
way  across  the  floor.  Evidently  she  was  in  a  mood  of  the 
most  ingratiating  friendHness,  and  as  one  after  another  of 
the  departing  traders  spoke  to  her,  raised  her  tail  in  the 
air  and  arched  her  back  against  the  legs  of  the  empty 
chairs.  The  janitor  put  in  an  appearance,  lowering  the 
tall  colored  windows  with  a  long  rod.  A  noise  of  hammer- 
ing and  the  scrape  of  saws  began  to  issue  from  a  corner 
where  a  couple  of  carpenters  tinkered  about  one  of  the 
sample  tables. 

Then  at  last  even  the  settlement  clerks  took  themselves 
ofif.  At  once  there  was  a  great  silence,  broken  only  by  the 
harsh  rasp  of  the  carpenters'  saws  and  the  voice  of  the 
janitor  exchanging  jokes  with  the  washerwomen.  The 
sound  of  footsteps  in  distant  quarters  re-echoed  as  if  in  a 
church. 

The  washerwomen  invaded  the  floor,  spreading  soapy 
and  steaming  water  before  them.  Over  by  the  sample 
tables  a  negro  porter  in  shirt-sleeves  swept  entire  bushels 
of  spillfed  wheat,  crushed,  broken,  and  sodden,  into  his 
dust  pans. 

The  day's  campaign  was  over.  It  was  past  two  o'clock. 
On  the  great  dial  against  the  eastern  wall  the  indicator 
stood — sentinel  fashion — at  ninety-three.  Not  till  the 
following  morning  would  the  whirlpool,  the  great  central 
force  that  spun  the  Niagara  of  wheat  in  its  grip,  thunder 
and  bellow  again. 

Later  on  even  the  washerwomen,  even  the  porter  and 
janitor,  departed.  An  unbroken  silence,  the  peacefulness 
of  an  untroubled  calm,  settled  over  the  place.    The  raj^s 


350  American  Literature 

of  the  afternoon  sun  flooded  through  the  west  windows  in 
long  parallel  shafts  full  of  floating  golden  motes.  There 
was  no  sound;  nothing  stirred.  The  floor  of  the  Board  of 
Trade  was  deserted.  Alone,  on  the  edge  of  the  abandoned 
Wheat  Pit,  in  a  spot  where  the  sunlight  fell  warmest — an 
atom  of  life,  lost  in  the  immensity  of  the  empty  floor — the 
grey  cat  made  her  toilet,  diligently  licking  the  fur  on  the 
inside  of  her  thigh,  one  leg,  as  if  dislocated,  thrust  into 
the  air  above  her  head. 

19.  William  Sidney  Porter  (186 7-1 9 10),  popularly  known 
as  *'0.  Henry,"  has  been  called  "  the  discoverer  of  the  romance 
of  New  York's  streets,"  the  ''Bret  Harte  of  the  city."  He  was 
a  prolific  writer  of  short  stories  dealing  with  New  York  life  in 
the  slums.  It  is  said  that  he  knew  New  York  as  no  other  author 
has  known  it.  His  stories  are  full  of  pathos  and  tragedy  and 
a  touch  of  humor  withal. 


The  Count  and  the  Wedding  Guest 
(In  The  Trimmed  Lamp) 

One  evening  when  Andy  Donovan  went  to  dinner  at 
his  Second  Avenue  boarding-house,  Mrs.  Scott  intro- 
duced him  to  a  new  boarder,  a  young  lady,  Miss  Conway. 
Miss  Conway  was  small  and  unobtrusive.  She  wore  a 
plain,  snuffy-brown  dress,  and  bestowed  her  interest, 
which  seemed  languid,  upon  her  plate.  She  lifted  her 
diffident  eyelids  and  shot  one  perspicuous,  judicial  glance 
at  Mr.  Donovan,  pohtely  murmured  his  name,  and  re- 
turned to  her  mutton.  Mr.  Donovan  bowed  with  the 
grace  and  beaming  smile  that  were  rapidly  winning  for 
him  social,  business  and  poHtical  advancement,  and  erased 
the  snuffy-brown  one  from  the  tablets  of  his  consideration. 

Two  weeks  later  Andy  was  sitting  on  the  front  steps 
enjoying  his  cigar.  There  was  a  soft  rustle  behind  and 
above  him,  and  Andy  turned  his  head — and  had  his  head 
turned. 

Just  coming  out  the  door  was  Miss  Conway.  She  wore 
a  night-black  dress  of  crepe  de — crepe  de — oh,  this  thin 


Later  and  Present- Day  Writers  351 

black  goods.  Her  hat  was  black,  and  from  it  drooped  and 
fluttered  an  ebon  veil,  filmy  as  a  spider's  web.  She  stood  on 
the  top  step  and  drew  on  black  silk  gloves.  Not  a  speck  of 
white  or  a  spot  of  color  about  her  dress  anywhere.  Her 
rich  golden  hair  was  drawn,  with  scarcely  a  ripple,  into  a 
shining,  smooth  knot  low  on  her  neck.  Her  face  was  plain 
rather  than  pretty,  but  it  was  now  illuminated  and  made 
almost  beautiful  by  her  large  gray  eyes  that  gazed  above 
the  houses  across  the  street  into  the  sky  with  an  expression 
of  the  most  appealing  sadness  and  melancholy.  .  .  . 

Mr.  Donovan  suddenly  reinscribed  Miss  Conway  upon 
the  tablets  of  his  consideration.  .  .  . 

"It's  a  fine,  clear  evening,  Miss  Conway,"  he  said  and 
if  the  Weather  Bureau  could  have  heard  the  confident 
emphasis  of  his  tones  it  would  have  hoisted  the  square 
white  signal  and  nailed  it  to  the  mast. 

*'To  them  that  has  the  heart  to  enjoy  it,  it  is,  Mr.  Dono- 
van," said  Miss  Conway,  with  a  sigh.  .  .  . 

"I  hope  none  of  your  relatives — I  hope  you  haven't  sus- 
tained a  loss?"  ventured  Mr.  Donovan. 

"Death  has  claimed,"  said  Miss  Conway,  hesitating — 
"not  a  relative,  but  one  who — but  I  will  not  intrude  my 
grief  upon  you,  Mr.  Donovan." 

"Intrude?"  protested  Mr.  Donovan.  "Why,  say.  Miss 
Conway,  I'd  be  dehghted,  that  is,  I'd  be  sorry — I  mean 
I'm  sure  nobody  could  sympathize  with  you  truer  than  I 
would." 

Miss  Conway  smiled  a  little  smile.  And  oh,  it  was 
sadder  than  her  expression  in  repose. 

"'Laugh,  and  the  world  laughs  with  you;  weep,  and 
they  give  you  the  laugh,'"  she  quoted.  "I  have  learned 
that,  Mr.  Donovan.  I  have  no  friends  or  acquaintances 
in  this  city.  But  you  have  been  kind  to  me.  I  appreciate 
it  highly." 

He  had  passed  her  the  pepper  twice  at  the  table. 

"It's  tough  to  be  alone  in  New  York — that's  a  cinch," 
said  Mr.  Donovan.  "But,  say — ^whenever  this  Httle  old 
town  does  loosen  up  and  get  friendly  it  goes  the  limit.  Say 
you  took  a  little  stroll  in  the  park,  Miss  Conway — don't 


352  American  Literature 

you  think  it  might  chase  away  some  of  your  mullygrubs? 
And  if  you'd  allow  me " 

''Thanks,  Mr.  Donovan.  I'd  be  pleased  to  accept  of 
your  escort  if  you  think  the  company  of  one  whose  heart 
is  filled  with  gloom  could  be  anyways  agreeable  to  you." 

Through  the  open  gates  of  the  iron-railed,  old,  down- 
town park,  where  the  elect  once  took  the  air,  they  strolled 
and  found  a  quiet  bench.  .  .  . 

*'He  was  my  fiance,"  confided  Miss  Conway,  at  the  end 
of  an  hour.  ''We  were  going  to  be  married  next  spring.  .  .  . 
He  was  a  real  Count.  He  had  an  estate  and  a  castle  in 
Italy.  Count  Fernando  Mazzini  was  his  name.  I  never 
saw  the  beat  of  him  for  elegance.  Papa  objected,  of 
course,  and  once  we  eloped,  but  papa  overtook  us,  and 
took  us  back.  I  thought  sure  papa  and  Fernando  would 
fight  a  duel.  Papa  has  a  livery  business — in  P'kipsee,  you 
know. 

"Finally,  papa  came  around  all  right,  and  said  we  might 
be  married  next*spring.  Fernando  showed  him  proofs  of 
his  title  and  wealth,  and  then  went  over  to  Italy  to  get  the 
castle  fixed  up  for  us.  .  .  .  And  when  Fernando  sailed  I 
came  to  the  city  and  got  a  position  as  cashier  in  a  candy 
store. 

"Three  days  ago  I  got  a  letter  from  Italy,  forwarded 
from  P'kipsee,  saying  that  Fernando  had  been  killed  in  a 
gondola  accident. 

"That  is  why  I  am  in  mourning.  My  heart,  Mr.  Dono- 
van, will  remain  forever  in  his  grave.  I  guess  I  am  poor 
company,  Mr.  Donovan,  but  I  can  not  take  any  interest  in 
no  one.  I  should  not  care  to  keep  you  from  gaiety  and  your 
friends  who  can  smile  and  entertain  you.  Perhaps  you 
would  prefer  to  walk  back  to  the  house?"  .  .  . 

"I'm  awful  sorry,"  said  Mr.  Donovan  gently.  "No,  we 
won't  walk  back  to  the  house  just  yet.  And  don't  say  you 
haven't  no  friends  in  this  city.  Miss  Conway.  I'm  awful 
sorry,  and  I  want  you  to  beheve  I'm  your  friend,  and  that 
I'm  awful  sorry." 

"I've  got  his  picture  here  in  my  locket,"  said  Miss  Con- 
way, after  wiping  her  eyes  with  her  handkerchief.     "I 


Later  and  Present- Day  Writers  353 

never  showed  it  to  anybody,  but  I  will  to  you,  Mr.  Donovan, 
because  I  believe  you  to  be  a  true  friend." 

Mr.  Donovan  gazed  long  and  with  much  interest  at 
the  photograph  in  the  locket  that  Miss  Conway  opened 
for  him.  The  face  of  Count  Mazzini  was  one  to  command 
interest.  It  was  a  smooth,  intelHgent,  bright,  almost  a 
handsome  face — the  face  of  a  strong,  cheerful  man  who 
might  well  be  a  leader  among  his  fellows. 

''I  have  a  larger  one,  framed,  in  my  room,"  said  Miss 
Conway.  "When  we  return  I  will  show  you  that.  They 
are  all  I  have  to  remind  me  of  Fernando.  But  he  ever  will 
be  present  in  my  heart,  that's  a  sure  thing."  .  .  . 

Before  they  parted  in  the  hall  that  evening  she  ran  up- 
stairs and  brought  down  the  framed  photograph  wrapped 
lovingly  in  a  white  silk  scarf.  Mr.  Donovan  surveyed  it 
with  inscrutable  eyes. 

"He  gave  me  this  the  night  he  left  for  Italy,"  said  Miss 
Conway.     "I  had  one  for  the  locket  made  from  this." 

"  A  fine-looking  man,"  said  Mr.  Donovan  heartily.  "How 
would  it  suit  you.  Miss  Conway,  to  give  me  the  pleasure 
of  your  company  to  Coney  next  Sunday  afternoon?" 

A  month  later  they  announced  their  engagement  to  Mrs. 
Scott  and  the  other  boarders.  Miss  Conway  continued  to 
wear  black. 

A  week  after  the  announcement  the  two  sat  on  the  same 
bench  in  the  downtown  park,  while  the  fluttering  leaves  of 
the  trees  made  a  dim  kinetoscopic  picture  of  them  in  the 
moonligt^t.  But  Donovan  had  worn  a  look  of  abstracted 
gloom  all  day.  He  was  so  silent  to-night  that  love's  Kps 
could  not  keep  back  any  longer  the  questions  that  love's 
heart  propounded. 

"What's  the  matter,  Andy,  you  are  so  solemn  and 
grouchy  to-night?" 

"Nothing,  Maggie." 

"I  know  better.  Can't  I  tell?  You  never  acted  this 
way  before.     What  is  it?" 

"It's  nothing  much,  Maggie." 

"Yes  it  is,  and  I  want  to  know.  I'll  bet  it's  some  other 
girl  you  are  thinking  about.    All  right.    Why  don't  you  go 


354  American  Literature 

and  get  her  if  you  want  her  ?  Take  your  arm  away,  if  you 
please." 

''I'll  tell  you  then,"  said  Andy  wisely;  ''but  I  guess  you 
won't  understand  it  exactly.  You've  heard  of  Mike  Sulli- 
van, haven't  you?  'Big  Mike'  Sullivan,  everybody  calls 
him." 

"No,  I  haven't,"  said  Maggie.  "And  I  don't  want  to,  if 
he  makes  you  act  like  this.    Who  is  he?" 

"He's  the  biggest  man  in  New  York,"  said  Andy,  almost 
reverently.  "He  can  do  about  anything  he  wants  to  with 
Tammany  or  any  other  old  thing  in  the  political  line.  .  .  . 

"Well,  Big  Mike's  a  friend  of  mine.  I  ain't  more  than 
deuce-high  in  the  district  as  far  as  influence  goes,  but 
Mike's  as  good  a  friend  to  a  little  man,  or  a  poor  man,  as 
he  is  to  a  big  one.  I  met  him  to-day  on  the  Bowery,  and 
what  do  you  think  he  does?  Comes  up  and  shakes  hands. 
...  I  told  him  I  was  going  to  get  married  in  two  weeks. 
'Andy,'  says  he,  'send  me  an  invitation,  so  I'll  keep  in  mind 
of  it,  and  I'll  come  to  the  wedding.'  That's  what  Big  Mike 
says  to  me;  and  he  always  does  what  he  says. 

"You  don't  understand  it,  Maggie,  but  I'd  have  one  of 
my  hands  cut  off  to  have  Big  Mike  Sullivan  at  our  wedding. 
It  would  be  the  proudest  day  of  my  life."  .  .  . 

"Why  don't  you  invite  him,  then,  if  he's  so  much  to  the 
mustard?"  said  Maggie  lightly. 

"There's  a  reason  why  I  can't,"  said  Andy  sadly. 
"There's  a  reason  why  he  mustn't  be  there.  Don't  ask  me 
what  it  is,  for  I  can't  tell  you." 

"Oh,  I  don't  care,"  said  Maggie.  "It's  something  about 
politics,  of  course.  But  it's  no  reason  why  you  can't  smile 
at  me." 

"Maggie,"  said  Andy  presently,  " do  you  think  as  much  of 
me  as  you  did  of  your — as  you  did  of  the  Count  Mazzini  ?  '* 

He  waited  a  long  time,  but  Maggie  did  not  reply.  And 
then,  suddenly  she  leaned  against  his  shoulder  and  began 
to  cry — to  cry  and  shake  with  sobs,  holding  his  arm  tightly 
and  wetting  the  crepe  de  Chine  with  tears. 

"There,  there,  there!"  soothed  Andy,  putting  aside  his 
own  trouble.     "And  what  is  it  now?" 


Later  and  Present- Day  Writers  355 

"Andy/'  sobbed  Maggie,  "I've  lied  to  you  and  you'll 
never  marry  me,  or  love  me  any  more.  But  I  feel  that 
I've  got  to  tell.  Andy,  there  never  was  so  much  as  the 
little  finger  of  a  count.  I  never  had  a  beau  in  my  life. 
But  all  the  other  girls  had,  and  they  talked  about  'em, 
and  that  seemed  to  make  the  fellows  like  'em  more.  And, 
Andy,  I  look  swell  in  black — you  know  I  do.  So  I  went 
out  to  a  photograph  store  and  bought  that  picture,  and 
had  a  Httle  one  made  for  my  locket,  and  made  up  all  that 
story  about  the  Count  and  about  his  being  killed,  so  I 
could  wear  black.  And  nobody  can  love  a  liar  and  you'll 
shake  me,  Andy,  and  I'll  die  for  shame.  Oh,  there  never 
was  anybody  I  liked  but  you — and  that's  all." 

But  instead  of  being  pushed  away  she  found  Andy's  arm 
folding  her  closely.  She  looked  up  and  saw  his  face  cleared 
and  smiHng. 

"Could  you — could  you  forgive  me,  Andy?" 

"Sure,"  said  Andy.  "It's  all  right  about  that.  Back  to 
the  cemetery  for  the  Count.  You've  straightened  every- 
thing out,  Maggie.  I  was  in  hopes  you  would  before  the 
wedding-day.    Bully  girl!" 

"Andy,"  said  Maggie  with  a  somewhat  shy  smile,  after 
she  had  been  thoroughly  assured  of  forgiveness,  "did  you 
believe  all  that  story  about  the  Count?" 

"Well,  not  to  any  large  extent,"  said  Andy,  reaching  for 
his  cigar-case;  "because  it's  Big  Mike  Sullivan's  picture 
you've  got  in  that  locket  of  yours." 

20.  Winston  Churchill  (1871-  )  was  born  in  St.  Louis, 
Missouri,  and  is  a  graduate  of  the  United  States  Naval  Acad- 
emy. His  field  is  chiefly  that  of  the  historical  novel.  Among 
his  best  works  are  Richard  Carvel,  The  Crisis,  and  Coniston. 

Some  Memories  of  Childhood 

(From  Richard  Carvel,  Chapter  II) 

One  fifteenth  of  June  two  children  sat  with  bated  breath 
in  the  pinnace, — Dorothy  Manners  and  myself.  Mistress 
Dolly  was  then  as  mischievous  a  little  baggage  as  ever  she 


356  American  Literature 

proved  afterwards.  She  was  coming  to  pass  a  week  at  the 
Hall,  her  parents,  whose  place  was  next  to  ours,  having 
gone  to  Philadelphia  on  a  visit.  We  rounded  Kent  Island, 
which  lay  green  and  beautiful  in  the  flashing  waters, 
and  at  length  caught  sight  of  the  old  windmill,  with  its 
great  arms  majestically  turning,  and  the  cupola  of  Carvel 
House  shining  white  among  the  trees;  and  of  the  upper 
spars  of  the  shipping,  with  sails  neatly  furled,  lying  at 
the  long  wharves,  where  the  English  wares  Mr.  Carvel 
had  commanded  for  the  return  trip  were  unloading.  Scarce 
was  the  pinnace  brought  into  the  wind  before  I  had  leaped 
ashore  and  greeted  with  a  shout  the  Hall  servants  drawn 
up  in  a  line  on  the  green,  grinning  a  welcome.  Dorothy 
and  I  scampered  over  the  grass  and  into  the  cool,  wide 
house,  resting  awhile  on  the  easy  sloping  steps  within,  hand 
in  hand.  And  then  away  for  that  grand  tour  of  inspection 
we  had  been  so  long  planning  together.  How  well  I  recall 
that  sunny  afternoon,  when  the  shadows  of  the  great 
oaks  were  just  beginning  to  lengthen.  Through  the  green- 
houses we  marched,  monarchs  of  all  we  surveyed,  old 
Porphery,  the  gardener,  presenting  Mistress  Dolly  with  a 
crown  of  orange  blossoms,  for  which  she  thanked  him  with 
a  pretty  courtesy  her  governess  had  taught  her.  Were 
we  not  king  and  queen  returned  to  our  summer  palace? 
And  Spot  and  Silver  and  Song  and  Knipe,  the  wolf-hound, 
were  our  train,  though  not  as  decorous  as  rigid  etiquette 
demanded,  since  they  were  forever  running  after  the  butter- 
flies. On  we  went  through  the  stiff,  box-bordered  walks 
of  the  garden,  past  the  weather-beaten  sun-dial  and  the 
spinning-house  and  the  smoke-house  to  the  stables.  Here 
old  Harvey,  who  had  taught  me  to  ride  Captain  Daniel's 
pony,  is  equerry,  and  young  Harvey  our  personal  atten- 
dant; old  Harvey  smiles  as  we  go  in  and  out  of  the  stalls 
rubbing  the  noses  of  our  trusted  friends,  and  gives  a  gruff 
but  kindly  warning  as  to  Cassandra's  heels.  He  recalls  my 
father  at  the  same  age. 

Jonas  Tree  the  carpenter,  sits  sunning  himself  on  his 
bench  before  the  shop,  but  mysteriously  disappears  when 
he  sees  us,  and  returns  presently  with  a  little  ship  he  has 


Later  and  Present-Day  Writers  357 

fashioned  for  me  that  winter,  all  complete  with  spars  and 
sails,  for  Jonas  was  a  ship-wright  on  the  Severn  in  the  old 
country  before  he  came  as  a  King's  passenger  to  the  new. 
Dolly  and  I  are  off  directly  to  the  backwaters  of  the  river, 
where  the  new  boat  is  launched  with  due  ceremony  as  the 
Conqueror,  his  Majesty's  latest  ship-of-the-line.  .  .  . 

How  short  those  summer  days!  All  too  short  for  the 
girl  and  boy  who  had  so  much  to  do  in  them.  The  sun 
rising  over  the  forest  often  found  us  peeping  through  the 
blinds,  and  when  he  sank  into  the  Bay  at  night,  we  were 
still  running,  tired  but  happy,  and  begging  patient  Hester 
for  half  an  hour  more.  *'Lawd,  Marse  Dick,"  I  can  hear 
her  say,  "you  and  Miss  Dolly's  been  on  yo'  feet  since  de 
dawn.    And  so's  I,  honey." 

And  so  we  had.  We  would  spend  whole  days  on  the 
wharves.  .  .  .  Often  we  would  mount  together  on  the 
little  horse  Captain  Daniel  had  given  me,  Dorothy  on  a 
pinion  behind,  to  go  with  my  grandfather  to  inspect  the 
farm.  .  .  . 

And  all  this  time  I  was  busily  wooing  Mistress  Dolly; 
but  she,  little  minx,  would  give  me  no  satisfaction.  I  see 
her  standing  among  the  strawberries,  her  black  hair  waving 
in  the  wind,  and  her  red  lips  redder  still  from  the  stain. 
And  the  sound  of  her  childish  voice  comes  back  to  me  now 
after  all  these  years.     And  this  was  my  first  proposal: — 

''Dorothy,  when  you  grow  up  and  I  grow  up,  you  will 
marry  me,  and  I  shall  give  you  all  these  strawberries." 

''I  will  marry  none  but  a  soldier,"  says  she,  ''and  a  great 
man." 

"Then  I  will  be  a  soldier,"  I  cried,  "and  greater  than 
the  Governor  himself."     And  I  believed  it. 

"Papa  says  I  shall  marry  an  earl,"  retorts  Dorothy, 
with  a  toss  of  her  pretty  head. 

"There  are  no  earls  among  us,"  I  exclaimed  hotly.  .  .  . 
^'Our  earls  are  those  who  have  made  their  own  way,  like 
my  grandfather."  For  I  had  lately  heard  Captain  Clap- 
saddle  say  this  and  much  more  on  the  subject.  But 
Dorothy  turned  up  her  nose. 

"I  shall  go  home  when  I  am  eighteen,"  she  said,  "and 


358  ATuerican  Literature 

I  shall  meet  his  Majesty,  the  King."  And  to  such  an 
argument  I  found  no  logical  answer. 

Mr.  Marmaduke  Manners  and  his  lady  came  to  fetch 
Dorothy  home.  He  was  a  foppish  little  gentleman  who 
thought  more  of  the  cut  of  his  waistcoat  than  of  the  affairs 
of  the  province,  and  would  rather  have  been  bidden  to 
lead  the  assembly  ball  than  to  sit  in  council  with  his  Excel- 
lency the  Governor.  ...  He  had  little  in  common  with 
my  grandfather,  whose  chief  business  and  pleasure  was  to 
promote  industry  on  his  farm.  Mr.  Marmaduke  was 
wont  to  rise  at  noon,  and  knew  not  wheat  from  barley,  or 
good  leaf  from  bad;  his  hands  he  kept  like  a  lady's,  render- 
ing them  almost  useless  by  the  long  lace  on  the  sleeves, 
and  his  chief  pastime  was  card-playing.  .  .  . 

Of  Mrs.  Manners  I  shall  say  more  by  and  by.  I  took 
a  mischievous  dehght  in  giving  Mr.  Manners  every  annoy- 
ance my  boyish  fancy  could  conceive.  The  evening  of  his 
arrival  he  and  Mr.  Carvel  set  out  for  a  stroll  about  the 
house,  Mr.  Marmaduke  mincing  his  steps,  for  it  had  rained 
that  morning.  And  presently  they  came  upon  the  wind- 
mill with  its  long  arms  moving  lazily  in  the  Ught  breeze, 
near  touching  the  ground  as  they  passed,  for  the  mill  was 
built  in  the  Dutch  fashion.  I  know  not  what  moved  me, 
but  hearing  Mr.  Manners  carelessly  humming  a  minuet 
while  my  grandfather  explained  the  usefulness  of  the  mill, 
I  seized  hold  of  one  of  the  long  arms  as  it  swung  by,  and 
before  the  gentlemen  could  prevent,  was  carried  slowly 
upwards.  Dorothy  screamed,  and  her  father  stood  stock 
still  with  amazement  and  fear,  Mr.  Carvel  being  the  only 
one  who  kept  his  presence  of  mind.  *'Hold  on  tight, 
Richard!"  I  heard  him  cry.  It  was  dizzy  riding,  though 
the  motion  was  not  great,  and  before  I  had  reached  the 
right  angle  I  regretted  my  rashness.  I  caught  a  glimpse 
of  the  Bay  with  the  red  sun  on  it,  and  as  I  turned  saw  far 
below  me  the  white  figure  of  I  vie  Rawlinson,  the  Scotch 
miller,  who  had  run  out.  **0  haith!"  he  shouted,  "Haud 
fast,  Mr.  Richard!"  And  so  I  clung  tightly  and  came 
down  without  much  inconvenience,  though  indififerently 
glad  to  feel  the  ground  again. 


Later  and  Present-Day  Writers  359 

Mr.  Marmaduke,  as  I  expected,  was  in  a  great  temper, 
and  swore  he  had  not  had  such  a  fright  for  years.  He 
looked  for  Mr.  Carvel  to  cane  me  stoutly.  But  Ivie 
laughed  heartily  and  said:  ''I  wad  ye'U  gang  far  for  anither 
laddie  wi'  the  spunk,  Mr.  Manners,"  and  with  a  sly  look  at 
my  grandfather,  *'Ilka  day  we  hae  some  sic  whigmeleery." 

I  think  Mr.  Carvel  was  not  ill-pleased  with  the  feat,  or 
with  Mr.  Marmaduke's  way  of  taking  it.  For  afterwards 
I  overheard  him  telling  the  story  to  Colonel  Lloyd,  and  both 
gentlemen  laughing  over  Mr.  Manners's  discomfiture. 

21.  Jack  London  (1876-  )  is  a  promising  young  writer 
of  the  West.  The  Call  of  the  Wild  first  brought  his  name  before 
the  public.  He  has  since  written  many  other  stories  both  long 
and  short. 

To  THE  Death 
(From  The  Call  of  the  Wild,  Chapter  III) 

.  .  .  Spitz,  cold  and  calculating  even  in  his  supreme 
moods,  left  the  pack  and  cut  across  a  narrow  neck  of  land 
where  the  creek  made  a  long  bend  around.  Buck  did  not 
know  of  this,  and  as  he  rounded  the  bend,  the  frost  wraith 
of  a  rabbit  still  flitting  before  him,  he  saw  another  and 
larger  frost  wraith  leap  from  the  overhanging  bank  into 
the  immediate  path  of  the  rabbit.  It  was  Spitz.  The 
rabbit  could  not  turn,  and  as  the  white  teeth  broke  its 
back  in  mid  air  it  shrieked  as  loudly  as  a  stricken  man 
may  shriek.  .  .  . 

Buck  did  not  cry  out.  He  did  not  check  himself,  but 
drove  in  upon  Spitz,  shoulder  to  shoulder,  so  hard  that  he 
missed  the  throat.  They  rolled  over  and  over  in  the 
powdery  snow.  Spitz  gained  his  feet  almost  as  though  he 
had  not  been  overthrown,  slashing  Buck  down  the  shoulder 
and  leaping  clear.  Twice  his  teeth  clipped  together,  like 
the  steel  jaws  of  a  trap,  as  he  backed  away  for  better 
footing,  with  lean  and  lifting  hps  that  writhed  and  snarled. 

In  a  flash  Buck  knew  it.  The  time  had  come.  It  was 
to  the  death.  As  they  circled  about,  snarling,  ears  laid 
back,  keenly  watchful  for  the  advantage,  the  scene  came 


360  American  Literature 

to  Buck  with  a  sense  of  familiarity.  He  seemed  to  re- 
member it  all, — the  white  woods,  and  earth,,  and  moon- 
light, and  the  thrill  of  battle.  Over  the  whiteness  and 
silence  brooded  a  ghostly  calm.  ...  It  was  as  though  it 
had  always  been,  the  wonted  way  of  things. 

Spitz  was  a  practised  fighter.  ...  He  never  rushed  till 
he  was  prepared  to  receive  a  rush;  never  attacked  till  he 
had  first  defended  that  attack. 

In  vain  Buck  strove  to  sink  his  teeth  in  the  neck  of  the 
big  white  dog.  Wherever  his  fangs  struck  for  the  softer 
flesh,  they  were  countered  by  the  fangs  of  Spitz.  Fang 
clashed  fang,  and  lips  were  cut  and  bleeding,  but  Buck 
could  not  penetrate  his  enemy's  guard.  Then  he  warmed 
up  and  enveloped  Spitz  in  a  whirlwind  of  rushes.  Time 
and  time  again  he  tried  for  the  snow-white  throat,  where 
life  bubbled  near  to  the  surface,  and  each  time  and  every 
time  Spitz  slashed  him  and  got  away.  Then  Buck  took  to 
rushing,  as  though  for  the  throat,  when,  suddenly  drawing 
back  his  head  and  curving  in  from  the  side,  he  would  drive 
his  shoulder  at  the  shoulder  of  Spitz,  as  a  ram  by  which  to 
overthrow  him.  But  instead  Buck's  shoulder  was  slashed 
down  each  time  as  Spitz  leaped  hghtly  away. 

Spitz  was  untouched,  while  Buck  was  streaming  with 
blood  and  panting  hard.  The  fight  was  growing  desper- 
ate. And  all  the  while  the  silent  and  wolfish  circle  waited 
to  finish  off  whichever  dog  went  down.  As  Buck  grew 
winded.  Spitz  took  to  rushing,  and  he  kept  him  staggering 
for  footing.  Once  Buck  went  over,  and  the  whole  circle 
of  sixty  dogs  started  up;  but  he  recovered  himself,  almost 
in  mid  air,  and  the  circle  sank  down  again  and  waited. 

But  Buck  possessed  a  quality  that  made  for  greatness 
— imagination.  He  fought  by  instinct,  but  he  could  fight 
by  head  as  well.  He  rushed,  as  though  attempting  the 
old  shoulder  trick,  but  at  the  last  instant  swept  low  to  the 
snow  and  in.  His  teeth  closed  on  Spitz's  left  fore  leg. 
There  was  a  crunch  of  breaking  bone,  and  the  white  dog 
faced  him  on  three  legs.  Thrice  he  tried  to  knock  him 
over,  then  repeated  the  trick  and  broke  the  right  fore  leg. 
Despite  the  pain  and  helplessness,  Spitz  struggled  madly 


Later  and  Present- Day  Writers  361 

to  keep  up.  He  saw  the  silent  circle,  with  gleaming  eyes, 
lolling  tongues  and  silvery  breaths  drifting  upward,  closing 
in  upon  him  as  he  had  seen  similar  circles  close  in  upon 
beaten  antagonists  in  the  past.  Only  this  time  he  was 
the  one  who  was  beaten. 

There  was  no  hope  for  him.  Buck  was  inexorable. 
Mercy  was  a  thing  reserved  for  gentler  climes.  He  ma- 
noeuvred for  the  final  rush.  The  circle  had  tightened  till 
he  could  feel  the  breaths  of  the  huskies  on  his  flanks.  He 
could  see  them,  beyond  Spitz  and  to  either  side,  half  crouch- 
ing for  the  spring,  their  eyes  fixed  upon  him.  A  pause 
seemed  to  fall.  Every  animal  was  motionless  as  though 
turned  to  stone.  Only  Spitz  quivered  and  bristled  as  he 
staggered  back  and  forth,  snarling  with  horrible  menace, 
as  though  to  frighten  off  impending  death.  Then  Buck 
sprang  in  and  out;  but  while  he  was  in,  shoulder  had  at 
last  squarely  met  shoulder.  The  dark  circle  became  a 
dot  on  the  moon-flooded  snow  as  Spitz  disappeared  from 
view.  Buck  stood  and  looked  on,  the  successful  champion, 
the  dominant  primordial  beast  who  had  made  his  kill  and 
found  it  good. 


BIBLIOGRAPHY 
I.    For  Further  Illustration 

Burnett,  F.  H.:  Editha's  Burglar, 

My  Robin. 

The  Secret  Garden. 

Through  One  Administration. 
Cable,  G.  W.:  Old  Creole  Days, 
Churchill,  Winston:  Coniston. 

Richard  Carvel. 
Davis,  R.  H.:    The  Hungry  Man  was  Fed.     (In  Van  Bibber  and 
Others.) 

Love  Me,  Love  my  Dog.     (In  Van  Bibber  and  Others,) 

The  Red  Cross  Girl. 
Deland,  M.  W.:  Old  Chester  Tales, 

The  Voice. 
Fox,  John,  Jr. :  The  Trail  of  the  Lonesome  Pine. 


362  American  Literature 

Freeman,  Mary  E.  Wilkins:  A  New  England  Nun  and  Other  Stories. 

Silence  and  Other  Stories. 
•Garland,  H.:  Main  Travelled  Roads. 

Rose  of  Butcher's  Coolly. 
Harris,  J.  C:  Uncle  Remus,  His  Songs  and  Sayings. 
Howells,  W.  D.:    The  Elevator.     (In  The  Sleeping  Car  and  Other 
Farces.) 

The  Rise  of  Silas  Lap  ham. 

Mrs.  Johnson.     (In  Suburban  Sketches.) 

A  Memory  that  Worked  Overtime.     (In  Between  the  Dark  and 
the  Daylight.) 

The  Story  of  the  Author's  Life.     (In  The  Howells  Story  Book, 
by  Mildred  Howells  and  Mary  E.  Burt.) 
James,  H,  R.:  ^1  Passionate  Pilgrim.     (In  A  Passionate  Pilgrim.) 

The  Madonna  of  the  Future.     (In  A  Passionate  Pilgrim.) 

Daisy  Miller. 
London,  Jack:  The  Call  of  the  Wild. 
Murfree,  M.  N.:  The  Young  Mountaineers. 

The  Raid  of  the  Guerilla. 
Norris,  F. :  The  Octopus. 

The  Pit. 
Page,  T.  N.:  Red  Rock. 

Under  the  Crust.     (Short  stories.) 
Porter,  W.  S.  (O.  Henry) :  The  Hiding  of  Black  Bill.    (In  Options.) 

The  Voice  of  the  City.     (Short  stories.) 
Seton,  Ernest  Thompson:  Lives  of  the  Hunted. 

Wild  Animals  I  Have  Known. 
Smith,  F.  H.:  Colonel  Carter  of  Cartersville. 

The  Arm  Chair  at  the  Inn.     (Short  stories.) 

The  Woodfire  in  No.  j.     (Short  stories.) 
Stuart,  R.  McE.:  A  Golden  Wedding  and  Other  Tales. 

George  Washington  Jones. 

Moriah's  Mourning  and  Other  Half-Hour  Sketches. 
Wharton,  E.:  Italian  Backgrounds. 

II.    Prose — Non-Fiction 

I.  L3nnan  Abbott  (1835-  ),  editor  of  The  Outlook j  is  a 
New  York  preacher  and  ethical  teacher  of  note.  His  editorials 
are  widely  read.  The  following  introduction  to  his  article  on 
the  Open  Shop  is  a  splendid  illustration  of  clear,  logical  reason- 
ing. 


Later  and  Present-Day  Writers  36S 

The  Open  Shop 

(From  an  unsigned  editorial  which  appeared  in  The  Outlook,  July 

1 6,  1904) 

Our  object  in  this  article  is,  first,  to  define  the  issue 
joined  between  the  "open  shop"  and  the  "closed  shop"; 
and,  secondly,  to  give  our  judgment  on  that  issue  and  the 
reasons  upon  which  it  is  based. 

An  open  shop  is  one  in  which  union  men  and  non-union 
men  may  work  side  by  side  upon  equal  terms.  A  closed 
shop  is  one  from  which  either  union  men  are  excluded  by 
the  employer,  or  non-union  men  are  excluded  by  the  union; 
but,  ordinarily,  the  term  is  appHed  only  to  those  shops 
which  are  closed  against  non-union  men  by  the  refusal  of 
union  men  to  work  with  them.  It  is  in  that  sense  we  use 
the  phrase  in  this  article.  Are  trades-unions  justified  in 
insisting  upon  the  closed  shop — in  insisting,  that  is,  upon 
the.  exclusion  from  the  industry  in  which  they  are  engaged 
of  all  workingmen  who  do  not  belong  to  the  union  ? 

The  arguments  for  the  closed  shop  deserve  careful  con- 
sideration; they  may  be  briefly  stated  thus:  Workingmen 
have  a  right  to  choose  with  whom  they  shall  work,  as  well 
as  under  whom  they  shall  work.  Sometimes  the  industry 
is  made  extra-hazardous  by  the  employment  of  an  incom- 
petent workingman;  often  it  is  made  extra-difficult.  For 
this  reason  a  fireman  has  a  right  to  refuse  to  work  with  a 
green  locomotive  engineer,  or  a  locomotive  engineer  with 
a  green  fireman.  But  a  workman  has  a  right  to  protect 
not  only  his  life,  but  also  his  feeUng.  He  has  the  right  to 
refuse  to  work  in  the  intimacy  of  a  common  employment 
with  a  man  who  is  persona  non  grata;  and  there  is  a  real 
reason  why  the  non-union  man  is  persona  non  grata  to  the 
union  man.  Without  sharing  the  expenses  or  the  obliga- 
tions of  the  union,  he  gets — in  improved  conditions,  better 
wages,  and  shorter  hours — all  the  benefits  which  the  union 
secures  from  the  employer.  The  union  man  has  a  right  to 
refuse  to  work  with  a  companion  who  takes  all  the  advan- 
tages of  the  union  without  sharing  its  burdens.  More- 
over, if  the  shop  is  open  on  equal  terms  to  both  union  men 


364  American  Literature 

and  non-union  men,  the  employer  will  be  apt  gradually  to 
supplant  the  union  men  with  non-union  men  because 
it  is  easy  to  increase  the  hours  and  reduce  the  wages  where 
there  is  no  union  to  interpose  organized  resistance  to  such 
industrial  injustice.  Finally,  the  object  of  the  union  is 
not  merely  to  get  larger  wages,  lessened  hours,  and  better 
conditions.  The  workingman  denies  the  assumed  right 
of  the  employer  to  manage  his  business  as  he  pleases.  He 
insists  that  the  employer  and  employed  are  partners  in  a 
common  enterprise,  and  that  the  employee  has  a  right  to 
be  consulted  as  to  the  conditions  of  the  work,  and  to  share 
in  its  prosperity  when  it  is  prosperous,  as  he  is  certain  to 
share  in  its  adversity  when  it  is  unprosperous.  The  object 
of  the  union  is  to  secure  a  real  co-operation  for  the  working- 
man  with  the  employer,  on  something  like  equal  terms. 
This  can  be  done  only  by  ''collective  bargaining";  that 
is,  by  an  agreement  entered  into  by  a  body  of  workingmen 
acting  together  as  a  union,  with  the  employer,  who  is  g^en- 
erally  a  body  of  capitaHsts  acting  together  in  a  corporation. 
Only  thus  can  democratization  of  industry  be  secured  and 
the  autocracy  of  industry  be  ended;  and  this  result  is 
indispensable  in  order  to  bring  the  industrial  organization 
of  America  into  harmony  with  its  political,  educational, 
and  religious  organizations. 

These  considerations  seem  to  us  to  furnish  very  good 
reasons  for  the  organization  of  labor.  But  do  they  also 
furnish  good  reasons  for  compelling  workingmen  to  join 
organizations  of  labor  against  their  will?  For  the  real 
question  at  issue  between  the  closed  shop  and  the  open 
shop  is  not,  Shall  labor  organize  in  order  to  deal  on  terms 
of  greater  equaUty  with  organized  capital?  but.  Shall  the 
laborer  be  compelled  to  join  such  organization  in  order  to 
get  opportunity  to  labor  ? 

This  question  is  really  two  questions:  Is  the  closed  shop 
illegal?  If  not  illegal,  is  it  against  the  public  interest, 
and  therefore  and  to  that  extent  immoral?  ... 

2.  John  Burroughs  (1837-  )  was  born  in  New  York 
State.     He  is  a  lover  of  nature  and  a  writer  of  essays,  most  of 


Later  and  Present- Day  Writers  365 

which  deal  with  out-of-door  subjects.    In  a  certain  sense  he 
may  be  called  the  successor  of  Thoreau. 

Nature  in  Poetry 

(From  Introduction  to  Songs  of  Nature^  edited  by  John  Burroughs, 

1901) 

...  I  am  surprised  at  the  amount  of  so-called  Nature 
poetry  that  has  been  added  to  English  literature  during 
the  past  fifty  years,  but  I  find  only  a  little  of  it  of  perma- 
nent worth.  The  painted,  padded,  and  perfumed  Nature 
of  so  many  of  the  younger  poets  I  cannot  stand  at  all.  I 
have  not  knowingly  admitted  any  poem  that  was  not  true 
to  my  own  observations  of  Nature — or  that  diverged  at 
all  from  the  facts  of  the  case.  Thus,  a  poem  that  shows 
the  swallow  perched  upon  the  barn  in  October  I  could  not 
accept,  because  the  swallow  leaves  us  in  August;  or  a 
poem  that  makes  the  chestnut  bloom  with  the  Hlac — an 
instance  I  came  across  in  my  reading — would  be  ruled  out 
on  like  grounds;  or  when  I  find  poppies  blooming  in  the 
corn  in  an  American  poem,  as  I  several  times  have  done, 
I  pass  by  on  the  other  side. 

In  a  bird  poem  I  want  the  real  bird  as  a  basis — not 
merely  a  description  of  it,  but  its  true  place  in  the  season 
and  in  the  landscape,  and  no  liberties  taken  with  the  facts 
of  its  life  history.  I  must  see  or  feel  or  hear  the  live  bird 
in  the  verses,  as  one  does  in  Wordsworth's  ''Cuckoo,"  or 
Emerson's  "  Titmouse,"  or  Trowbridge's  ''  Pewee."  Lowell 
is  not , quite  true  to  the  facts  when  in  one  of  his  poems  he 
makes  the  male  oriole  assist  at  nest  building.  The  male 
may  seem  to  superintend  the  work,  but  he  does  not  actually 
lend  a  hand.  Give  me  the  real  bird  first,  and  then  all  the 
poetry  that  can  be  evoked  from  it. 

I  am  aware  that  there  is  another  class  of  bird  poems,  or 
poems  inspired  by  birds,  such  as  Keats's  "Ode  to  a  Night- 
ingale," in  which  there  is  httle  or  no  natural  history,  not 
even  of  the  sublimated  kind,  and  yet  that  take  high  rank 
as  poems.  It  is  the  ''waking  dream"  in  these  poems,  the 
translation  of  sensuous  impressions  into  spiritual  longings 
and  attractions  that  is  the  secret  of  their  power.     When 


366  American  Literature 

the  poet  can  give  us  himself,  we  can  well  afford  to  miss 
the  bird.  .  .  . 

The  one  thing  that  makes  a  poem  anyway  is  emotion 
— the  emotion  of  love,  of  beauty,  of  sublimity — and  these 
emotions  playing  about  the  reahty  result  in  the  true  Na- 
ture poetry,  as  in  Wordsworth,  Emerson,  and  Bryant. 
The  poet  is  not  so  much  to  paint  Nature  as  he  is  to  recreate 
her.  He  interprets  her  when  he  infuses  his  own  love  into 
her. 

3.  Hamilton  Wright  Mabie  (1845-  )  is  a  delightful 
essay  writer.  He  is  connected  with  the  editorial  department 
of  The  OtUlook. 

The  Feeling  for  Literature 
(From  Books  and  Culture,  Chapter  V) 

The  importance  of  reading  habitually  the  best  books 
becomes  apparent  when  one  remembers  that  taste  depends 
very  largely  on  the  standards  with  which  we  are  familiar, 
and  that  the  abihty  to  enjoy  the  best  and  only  the  best 
is  conditioned  upon  intimate  acquaintance  with  the  best. 
The  man  who  is  thrown  into  constant  association  with 
inferior  work  either  revolts  against  his  surroundings  or 
suffers  a  disintegration  of  aim  and  standard,  which  per- 
ceptibly lowers  the  plane  on  which  he  lives.  In  either  case 
the  power  of  enjoyment  from  contact  with  a  genuine  piece 
of  creative  work  is  sensibly  diminished,  and  may  be  finally 
lost.  The  delicacy  of  the  mind  is  both  precious  and  per- 
ishable; it  can  be  preserved  only  by  associations  which 
confirm  and  satisfy  it.  For  this  reason,  among  others,  the 
best  books  are  the  only  books  which  a  man  bent  on  culture 
should  read;  inferior  books  not  only  waste  his  time,  but 
they  dull  the  edge  of  his  perception  and  diminish  his  ca- 
pacity for  delight. 

This  dehght,  born  afresh  of  every  new  contact  of  the 
mind  with  a  real  book,  furnishes  indubitable  evidence  that 
the  reader  has  the  feeling  for  literature, — a  possession  much 
rarer  than  is  commonly  supposed.  It  is  no  injustice  to 
say  that  the  majority  of  those  who  read  have  no  feeling 


Later  and  Present-Day  Writers  367 

for  literature;  their  interest  is  awakened  or  sustained  not 
by  the  Hterary  quahty  of  a  book,  but  by  some  element  of 
brightness  or  novelty,  or  by  the  charm  of  narrative.  Read- 
ing which  finds  its  reward  in  these  things  is  entirely  legiti- 
mate, but  is  not  the  kind  of  reading  which  secures  culture. 
It  adds  largely  to  one's  stock  of  information,  and  it  re- 
freshes the  mind  by  introducing  new  objects  of  interest; 
but  it  does  not  minister  directly  to  the  refining  and  ma- 
turing of  the  nature.  The  same  book  may  be  read  in 
entirely  different  ways  and  with  entirely  different  results. 
One  may,  for  instance,  read  Shakespeare's  historical  plays 
simply  for  the  story  element  which  runs  through  them, 
and  for  the  interest  which  the  skilful  use  of  that  element 
excites;  and  in  such  a  reading  there  will  be  distinct  gain 
for  the  reader.  This  is  the  way  in  which  a  healthy  boy 
generally  reads  these  plays  for  the  first  time.  From  such 
a  reading  one  will  get  information  and  refreshment;  more 
than  one  English  statesman  has  confessed  that  he  owed 
his  knowledge  of  certain  periods  of  English  history  largely 
to  Shakespeare.  On  the  other  hand,  one  may  read  these 
plays  for  the  joy  of  the  art  that  is  in  them,  and  for  the  en- 
richment which  comes  from  contact  with  the  deep  and 
tumultuous  life  which  throbs  through  them;  and  this  is  the 
kind  of  reading  which  produces  culture,  the  reading  which 
means  enlargement  and  ripening. 

The  feeling  for  literature,  like  the  feeling  for  art  in  gen- 
eral, is  not  only  susceptible  of  cultivation,  but  very  quickly 
responds  to  appeals  which  are  made  to  it  by  noble  or 
beautiful  objects.  It  is  essentially  a  feeling,  but  it  is  a 
feeling  which  depends  very  largely  on  intelligence;  it  is 
strengthened  and  made  sensitive  and  responsive  by  con- 
stant contact  with  those  objects  which  call  it  out.  No 
rules  can  be  laid  down  for  its  development  save  the  very 
simple  rule  to  read  only  and  always  those  books  which  are 
literature.  It  is  impossible  to  give  specific  directions  for 
the  cultivation  of  the  feeling  for  Nature.  It  is  not  to  be 
gotten  out  of  text-books  of  any  kind;  it  is  not  to  be  found 
in  botanies  or  geologies  or  works  on  zoology;  it  is  to  be 
gotten  only  out  of  familiarity  with  Nature  herself.     Daily 


368  American  Literature 

fellowship  with  landscapes,  trees,  skies,  birds,  with  an  open 
mind  and  in  a  receptive  mood,  soon  develops  in  one  a  land 
of  spiritual  sense  which  takes  cognisance  of  things  not 
seen  before  and  adds  a  new  joy  and  resource  to  Ufe.  In 
like  manner  the  feeHng  for  literature  is  quickened  and 
nourished  by  intimate  acquaintance  with  books  of  beauty 
and  power.  Such  an  intimacy  makes  the  sense  of  delight 
more  keen,  preserves  it  against  influences  which  tend  to 
deaden  it,  and  makes  the  taste  more  sure  and  trustwor- 
thy. A  man  who  has  long  had  acquaintance  with  the 
best  in  any  department  of  art  comes  to  have,  almost  un- 
consciously to  himself,  an  instinctive  power  of  discerning 
good  work  from  bad,  of  recognizing  on  the  instant  the 
sound  and  true  method  and  style,  and  of  feeling  a  fresh 
and  constant  delight  in  such  work.  His  education  comes 
not  by  didactic,  but  by  vital  methods. 

4.  Agnes  Repplier  (1857-  )  was  born  in  Philadelphia. 
She  has  made  an  enviable  name  for  herself  in  the  world  of  let- 
ters through  her  delightful  essays.  (For  readings,  see  Bibliog- 
raphy, page  414.) 

5.  Theodore  Roosevelt  (1858-  ),  President  of  the  United 
States  from  1901  to  1909,  was  born  in  New  York  City.  He 
held  many  public  offices  before  he  became  President,  serving  as 
police  commissioner  of  New  York  City,  member  of  the  United 
States  Civil  Service  Commission,  Assistant  Secretary  of  the 
Navy,  during  the  first  administration  of  President  McKinley, 
Governor  of  New  York,  and  Vice-President  until  the  assassina- 
tion of  President  McKinley,  when  he  became  President.  When 
the  Spanish- American  War  broke  out  in  1898  he  resigned  his 
post  as  Assistant  Secretary  of  the  Navy  and  took  an  active 
part  in  the  war.  He  is  a  great  traveller  and  hunter  of  big  game, 
a  vigorous  speaker,  and  a  prolific  writer — biography,  history, 
and  travel  being  his  chief  fields.  The  Winning  of  the  West  is, 
perhaps,  his  best-known  book. 

Justice  vs.  Vindictiveness 

(Speech  made  at  Oyster  Bay,  New  York,  July  4,  1906) 

Mr.  Chairman  and  you,  my  old  friends  and  neighbors, 
you  among  whom  I  was  brought  up,  and  with  whom  I 


Later  and  Present- Day  Writers  369 

have  lived  for  so  many  years,  it  is  a  real  and  glorious  plea- 
sure to  have  the  chance  of  being  with  you  to-day,  to  say  a 
few  words  of  greeting  to  you,  and  in  a  sense  to  give  an 
account  of  my  stewardship.  I  say  ''in  a  sense,"  friends, 
because,  after  all,  the  stewardship  really  has  to  give  an 
account  of  itself.  If  a  man  needs  to  explain  overmuch 
what  he  has  done,  it  is  pretty  sure  proof  that  he  ought  to 
have  done  it  a  little  differently,  and  so  as  regards  most  of 
what  I  have  done  I  must  let  it  speak  for  itself. 

But  there  are  two  or  three  things  about  which  I  want  to 
talk  to  you  to-day  and  if,  in  the  presence  of  the  dominies, 
I  may  venture  to  speak  from  a  text,  I  shall  take  as  my  text 
the  words  of  Abraham  Lincoln  which  he  spoke  in  a  remark- 
able little  address  delivered  to  a  band  of  people  who  were 
serenading  him  at  the  White  House  just  after  his  reelec- 
tion to  the  Presidency.  He  said  (I  quote  from  memory 
only):  "In  any  great  national  trial  hereafter,  the  men  of 
that  day  as  compared  with  those  of  this  will  be  as  weak 
and  as  strong,  as  silly  and  as  wise,  as  bad  and  as  good. 
Let  us,  therefore,  study  the  incidents  of  this  as  philosophy 
from  which  to  learn  wisdom,  and  not  as  wrong  to  be 
avenged."  And  he  added  later  in  the  speech  a  touching 
and  characteristic  expression  of  his,  saying,  "So  long  as  I 
have  been  here  I  have  not  willingly  planted  a  thorn  in  any 
man's  breast." 

It  is  in  just  that  spirit  that  we,  as  a  nation,  if  we  possess 
the  power  of  learning  aright  the  lessons  to  be  taught  us  by 
Lincoln's  life,  will  approach  problems  of  to-day.  We  have 
not  got  the  same  problems  nor  as  great  problems  as  those 
with  which  the  men  of  Lincoln's  generation  were  brought 
face  to  face,  and  yet  our  problems  are  real  and  great,  and 
upon  the  way  in  which  we  solve  them  will  depend  whether 
or  not  our  children  have  cause  to  feel  pride  or  shame  as 
American  citizens.  If  Lincoln  and  the  men  of  his  genera- 
tion, the  men  who  followed  Grant  in  the  field,  who  upheld 
the  statesmanship  of  Lincoln  himself  in  the  council  chamber 
— if  these  men  had  not  done  their  full  duty,  not  a  man 
here  would  carry  his  head  high  as  an  American  citizen. 

We  have  heard  a  great  deal  during  the  past  year  or  two 


370  American  Literature 

of  the  frightful  iniquities  in  our  politics  and  our  business 
life,  the  frightful  wrongdoing  in  our  social  life.  Now 
there  is  plenty  of  iniquity,  in  business,  in  politics,  in  our 
social  Hfe.  There  is  every  warrant  for  our  acknowledging 
these  great  evils. 

But  there  is  no  warrant  for  growing  hysterical  about 
them.  It  is  a  poor  trick  to  spend  nine  tenths  of  the  time 
in  saying  that  there  never  was  such  iniquity  as  is  shown 
in  this  nation;  and  the  remaining  tenth  in  saying  that  we 
are  the  most  remarkable  nation  that  ever  existed.  We 
want  to  be  more  careful  in  blaming  ourselves  and  more 
careful  in  praising  ourselves.  Overemphasis  in  praise,  as 
well  as  overemphasis  in  blame,  is  apt  to  overreach  itself; 
just  as  the  man  who  promises  too  much — especially  on 
the  stump — is  apt  to  strike  the  balance  by  performing  too 
little.  It  is  true  that  there  is  much  evil;  but  in  speaking 
about  it  do  not  let  us  lose  our  heads;  and,  above  all,  let 
us  avoid  the  wild  vindictiveness  preached  by  certain  dema- 
gogues— the  vindictiveness  as  far  as  the  poles  asunder 
from  the  wise  charity  of  Abraham  Lincoln. 

The  poorest  of  all  emotions  for  any  American  citizen  to 
feel  is  the  emotion  of  hatred  toward  his  fellows.  Let  him 
feel  a  just  and  righteous  indignation  where  that  just  and 
righteous  indignation  is  called  for;  let  him  not  hesitate  to 
inflict  punishment  where  the  punishment  is  needed  in  the 
interest  of  the  public,  but  let  him  beware  of  demanding 
mere  vengeance,  and  above  all  of  inviting  the  masses  of 
the  people  to  such  demand.  Such  a  demand  is  alike  un- 
christian and  un-American,  and  the  man  who  makes  it  is 
false  to  the  highest  duties,  principles,  and  privileges  of 
American  citizenship. 

There  is  wrong  and  enough  to  fight.  Fight  it,  cut  it 
out,  and,  having  cut  it  out,  go  your  ways  without  either 
hatred  or  exultation  over  those  at  whose  expense  it  has 
been  necessary  that  it  should  be  cut  out.  There  are  plenty  of 
wrongs  done  by  men  of  great  means,  and  there  are  plenty  of 
wrongs  done  by  men  of  small  means.  Another  sentence 
of  Abraham  Lincoln's  which  it  is  well  to  remember  is, 
** There  is  a  deal  of  human  nature  in  mankind."     If  a  man 


Later  and  Present- Day  Writers  371 

possesses  a  twisted  morality,  he  will  show  that  twisted 
morality  wherever  he  happens  to  be.  If  he  is  not  a  man 
of  really  twisted  morals,  but  an  ordinary  happy-go-lucky 
individual  who  does  not  think  very  deeply,  he  will  often 
do  what  ought  not  to  be  done,  if  nobody  brings  home  his 
duty  to  him,  and  if  the  chances  are  such  as  to  render  easy 
wrongdoing. 

This  year  in  Congress  our  chief  task  has  been  to  carry 
the  government  forward  along  the  course  which  I  think 
it  might  follow  consistently  for  a  number  of  years  to  come 
— that  is,  in  the  direction  of  seeking  on  behalf  of  the  people 
as  a  whole,  through  the  national  government,  which  rep- 
resents the  people  as  a  whole,  to  exercise  a  measure  of 
supervision,  control,  and  restraint  over  the  individuals,  and 
especially  over  the  corporations,  of  great  wealth,  in  so  far 
as  the  business  use  of  that  wealth  brings  it  within  the 
reach  of  the  federal  government.  We  have  accomplished 
a  fair  amount,  and  the  reason  that  we  have  done  so  has 
been,  in  the  first  place,  because  we  have  not  tried  to  do 
too  much,  and,  in  the  next  place,  because  we  have  ap- 
proached the  task  absolutely  free  from  any  spirit  of  rancor 
or  hatred. 

When  it  becomes  necessary  to  curb  a  great  corporation, 
curb  it.  I  will  do  my  best  to  help  you,  but  I  will  do  it  in 
no  spirit  of  anger  or  hatred  to  the  men  who  own  or  control 
that  corporation,  and  if  any  seek  in  their  turn  to  do  wrong 
to  the  men  of  means,  to  do  wrong  to  the  men  who  own 
these  corporations,  I  will  turn  around  and  fight  for  them  in 
defense  of  their  rights  just  as  hard  as  I  fight  against  them 
when  I  think  they  are  doing  wrong. 

Distrust  as  a  demagogue  the  man  who  talks  only  of  the 
wrong  done  by  the  men  of  wealth.  Distrust  as  a  dema- 
gogue the  man  who  measures  iniquity  by  the  purse.  Mea- 
sure iniquity  by  the  heart,  whether  a  man's  purse  be  full 
or  empty,  partly  full  or  partly  empty.  If  the  man  is  a 
decent  man,  whether  well  off  or  not,  stand  by  him;  if  he 
is  not  a  decent  man,  stand  against  him,  whether  he  be  rich 
or  poor.  Stand  against  him  in  no  spirit  of  vengeance, 
but  only  with  the  resolute  purpose  to  make  him  act  as 


372  American  Literature 

decent  citizens  must  act  if  this  republic  is  to  be  and  to 
become  what  it  should. 

6.  Booker  T.  Washington  (1858-  ),  the  most  famous 
negro  of  the  day,  is  carrying  on  a  great  work  for  the  elevation 
of  his  race  at  Tuskeegee,  an  industrial  school  which  he  founded. 
He  has  delivered  many  addresses  both  in  this  country  and  abroad 
and  has  published  many  articles  and  essays,  his  one  theme 
being  the  negro. 

The  Better  Part 

(A  speech  delivered  at  the  Thanksgiving  Peace  Jubilee  Exercises, 
Chicago,  October  16,  1898) 

Mr.  Chairman,  Ladies  and  Gentlemen:  On  an  important 
occasion  in  the  life  of  the  Master,  when  it  fell  to  Him  to 
pronounce  judgment  on  two  courses  of  action,  these 
memorable  words  fell  from  his  lips:  "And  Mary  hath 
chosen  the  better  part."  This  was  the  supreme  test  in 
the  case  of  an  individual !  It  is  the  highest  test  in  the  case 
of  a  race  or  nation.  Let  us  apply  this  test  to  the  American 
negro. 

In  the  life  of  our  republic,  when  he  has  had  the  oppor- 
tunity to  choose,  has  it  been  the  better  or  worse  part? 
When,  in  the  childhood  of  this  nation,  the  negro  was  asked 
to  submit  to  slavery  or  choose  death  and  extinction,  as 
did  the  aborigines,  he  chose  the  better  part,  that  which 
perpetuated  the  race. 

When,  in  1776,  the  negro  was  asked  to  decide  between 
British  oppression  and  American  independence,  we  find 
him  choosing  the  better  part,  and  Crispus  Attucks,  a 
negro,  was  the  first  to  shed  his  blood  on  State  Street,  Bos- 
ton, that  the  white  American  might  enjoy  liberty  forever, 
though  his  race  remained  in  slavery. 

When,  in  1814,  at  New  Orleans,  the  test  of  patriotism 
came  again,  we  find  the  negro  choosing  the  better  part, 
and  General  Andrew  Jackson  himself  testifying  that  no 
heart  was  more  loyal  and  no  arm  more  strong  and  useful 
in  defence  of  righteousness. 

When  the  long  and  memorable  struggle  came  between 


Later  and  Present- Day  Writers  373 

union  and  separation,  when  he  knew  that  victory  on  the 
one  hand  meant  freedom,  and  defeat  on  the  other  his  con- 
tinued enslavement,  with  a  full  knowledge  of  the  porten- 
tous meaning  of  it  all,  when  the  suggestion  and  the  temp- 
tation came  to  burn  the  home  and  massacre  wife  and 
children  during  the  absence  of  the  master  in  battle,  and 
thus  ensure  his  liberty,  we  find  him  choosing  the  better 
part,  and  for  four  long  years  protecting  and  supporting 
the  helpless,  defenceless  ones  entrusted  to  his  care. 

When,  in  1863,  the  cause  of  the  Union  seemed  to  quiver 
in  the  balance,  and  there  was  doubt  and  distrust,  the  negro 
was  asked  to  come  to  the  rescue  in  arms,  and  the  valor 
displayed  at  Fort  Wagner  and  Port  Hudson  and  Fort 
Pillow,  testify  most  eloquently  again  that  the  negro  chose 
the  better  part. 

When,  a  few  months  ago,  the  safety  and  honor  of  the 
republic  were  threatened  by  a  foreign  foe,  .  .  .we  find 
the  negro  forgetting  his  own  wrongs,  forgetting  the  laws 
and  customs  that  discriminate  against  him  in  his  own 
country,  and  again  we  find  our  black  citizen  choosing  the 
better  part.  And  if  you  would  know  how  he  deported 
himself  in  the  field  at  Santiago,  apply  for  answer  to  Shaf- 
ter  and  Roosevelt  and  Wheeler.  Let  them  tell  how  the 
negro  faced  death  and  laid  down  his  life  in  defence  of 
honor  and  humanity,  and  when  you  have  gotten  the  full 
story  of  the  heroic  conduct  of  the  negro  in  the  Spanish- 
American  war  .  .  .  then  decide  within  yourselves  whether 
a  race  that  is  thus  willing  to  die  for  its  country  should  not 
be  given  the  highest  opportunity  to  live  for  its  country. 


This  country  has  been  most  fortunate  in  her  victories. 
.  .  .  All  this  is  well;  it  is  magnificent.  But  there  remains 
one  other  victory  for  Americans  to  win — a  victory  as  far- 
reaching  and  important  as  any  that  has  occupied  our  army 
and  navy.  We  have  succeeded  in  every  conflict,  except 
the  effort  to  conquer  ourselves  in  blotting  out  of  racial 
prejudices.  .  .  .  Let  us  be  as  generous  in  peace  as  we  have 
been  brave  in  battle.     Until  we  thus  conquer  ourselves,  I 


374  American  Literature 

make  no  empty  statement  when  I  say  that  we  shall  have, 
especially  in  the  southern  part  of  our  country,  a  cancer 
gnawing  at  the  heart  of  the  repubHc,  that  shall  one  day 
prove  as  dangerous  as  an  attack  from  an  army  without  or 
within. 


I  know  how  vain  and  impotent  is  all  abstract  talk  on 
this  subject.  In  your  efforts  to  ''rise  on  stepping  stones 
of  your  dead  selves,"  we  of  the  black  race  shall  not  leave 
you  unaided.  We  shall  make  the  task  easier  for  you  by 
acquiring  property,  habits  of  thrift,  economy,  intelligence, 
and  character,  by  each  making  himself  of  individual  worth 
in  his  own  community.  We  shall  aid  you  in  this  as  we 
did  a  few  days  ago  at  El  Caney  and  Santiago,  when  we 
helped  you  to  hasten  the  peace  we  here  celebrate.  You 
know  us;  you  are  not  afraid  of  us.  When  the  crucial  test 
comes,  you  are  not  ashamed  of  us.  We  have  never  be- 
trayed or  deceived  you.  You  know  that  as  it  has  been, 
so  it  will  be.  Whether  in  war  or  in  peace,  whether  in 
slavery  or  in  freedom,  we  have  always  been  loyal  to  the 
Stars  and  Stripes. 

7.  William  J.  Bryan  (i860-  )  was  born  in  Salem,  Illinois. 
He  is  a  great  political  leader  who  has  been  the  Democratic 
nominee  for  President  three  times.  At  present  (1914)  he  is 
Secretary  of  State.  He  is  famous  as  a  lecturer  and  is  probably 
the  most  eloquent  of  living  American  orators.  He  is  editor  of 
The  Commoner y  a  political  weekly  published  in  Lincoln,  Ne- 
braska. 

The  White  Man's  Burden 

(From  an  address  delivered  before  the  American  Society,  London, 
July  4,  1906) 

Our  EngHsh  friends,  under  whose  flag  we  meet  to-night, 
recalling  that  this  is  the  anniversary  of  our  nation's  birth, 
would  doubtless  pardon  us  if  our  rejoicing  contained  some- 
thing of  self -congratulation,  for  it  is  at  such  times  as  this 


Later  and  Present- Day  Writers  375 

that  we  are  wont  to  review  those  national  achievements 
which  have  given  to  the  United  States  its  prominence 
among  the  nations. 

But  I  hope  I  shall  not  be  thought  lacking  in  patriotic 
spirit  if,  instead  of  drawing  a  picture  of  the  past,  bright 
with  heroic  deeds  and  unparalleled  in  progress,  I  summon 
you  rather  to  a  serious  consideration  of  the  responsibility 
resting  upon  those  nations  which  aspire  to  premiership. 
This  line  of  thought  is  suggested  ,by  a  sense  of  propriety 
as  well  as  by  recent  experiences — by  a  sense  of  propriety 
because  such  a  subject  will  interest  the  Briton  as  well  as 
the  American,  and  by  recent  experiences  because  they  have 
impressed  me  not  less  with  our  national  duty  than  with 
the  superiority  of  Western  over  Eastern  civilization. 

Asking  your  attention  to  such  a  theme,  it  is  not  unfitting 
to  adopt  a  phrase  coined  by  a  poet  to  whom  America  as 
well  as  England  can  lay  some  claim,  and  take  for  my  text 
^'The  White  Man's  Burden." 

Take  up  the  White  Man's  burden — 
In  patience  to  abide, 
To  veil  the  threat  of  terror 
And  check  the  show  of  pride. 
By  open  speech  and  simple, 

An  hundred  times  made  plain, 
To  seek  another's  profit, 
And  work  another's  gain. 

Thus  sings  Kipling,  and,  with  the  exception  of  the  third 
line  (of  the  meaning  of  which  I  am  not  quite  sure),  the 
stanza  embodies  the  thought  which  is  uppermost  in  my 
mind  to-night.  No  one  can  travel  among  the  dark- 
skinned  races  of  the  Orient  without  feeling  that  the  white 
man  occupies  an  especially  favored  position  among  the 
children  of  men,  and  the  recognition  of  this  fact  is  accom- 
panied by  the  conviction  that  there  is  a  duty  inseparably 
connected  with  the  advantages  enjoyed.  There  is  a  white 
man's  burden — a  burden  which  the  white  man  should 
not  shirk  even  if  he  could,  a  burden  which  he  could  not 


376  American  Literature 

shirk  even  if  he  would.  That  no  one  ''liveth  unto  himself 
or  dieth  unto  himself"  has  a  national  as  well  as  an  in- 
dividual application.  Our  destinies  are  so  interwoven 
that  each  exerts  an  influence  directly  or  indirectly  upon 
all  others. 

Among  the  blessings  which  the  Christian  nations  are 
at  this  time  able — and  in  duty  bound — to  carry  to  the 
rest  of  the  world,  I  may  mention  five:  education,  knowledge 
of  the  science  of  government,  arbitration  as  a  substitute 
for  war,  appreciation  of  the  dignity  of  labor,  and  a  high 
conception  of  Hfe. 

In  India,  in  the  Philippines,  in  Egypt,  and  even  in  Tur- 
key statistics  show  a  gradual  extension  of  education,  and 
I  trust  I  will  be  pardoned  if  I  say  that  neither  the  armies 
nor  the  navies,  nor  yet  the  commerce  of  our  nations,  have 
given  us  so  just  a  claim  to  the  gratitude  of  the  people  of 
Asia  as  have  our  school-teachers,  sent,  many  of  them,  by 
private  rather  than  by  public  funds. 

The  Christian  nations  must  lead  the  movement  for  the 
promotion  of  peace,  not  only  because  they  are  enlisted 
under  the  banner  of  the  Prince  of  Peace,  but  also  because 
they  have  attained  such  a  degree  of  intelligence  that  they 
can  no  longer  take  pride  in  a  purely  physical  victory. 

Our  country  has  reason  to  congratulate  itself  upon  the 
success  of  President  Roosevelt  in  hastening  peace  between 
Russia  and  Japan.  Through  him  our  nation  won  a  moral 
victory  more  glorious  than  a  victory  in  war.  King  Ed- 
ward has  also  shown  himself  a  promoter  of  arbitration, 
and  a  large  number  of  members  of  Parliament  are  enlisted 
in  the  same  work.  It  means  much  that  the  two  great 
Enghsh  speaking  nations  are  thus  arrayed  on  the  side  of 
peace. 

Society  has  passed  through  a  period  of  aggrandizement, 
the  nations  taking  what  they  had  the  strength  to  take  and 
holding  what  they  had  the  power  to  hold.  But  we  are 
already  entering  a  second  era — an  era  in  which  the  na- 
tions discuss  not  merely  what  they  can  do,  but  what  they 
should  do,  considering  justice  to  be  more  important  than 
physical  prowess.     In  tribunals  like  that  of  The  Hague, 


Later  and  Present-Day  Writers  Sll 

the  chosen  representatives  of  the  nations  weigh  questions 
of  right  and  wrong,  and  give  a  small  nation  an  equal  hear- 
ing with  great  and  a  decree  according  to  conscience.  This 
marks  an  immeasurable  advance. 

But  is  another  step  yet  to  be  taken  ?  Justice  after  all  is 
cold  and  pulseless,  a  negative  virtue.  The  world  needs 
something  warmer,  more  generous.  Harmlessness  is  bet- 
ter than  harmfulness,  but  positive  helpfulness  is  vastly 
superior  to  harmlessness,  and  we  still  have  before  us  a 
larger,  higher  destiny  of  service. 

Even  now  there  are  signs  of  the  approach  of  this  third 
era,  not  so  much  in  the  actions  of  governments  as  in  the 
growing  tendency  of  men  and  women  in  many  lands  to 
contribute  their  means,  in  some  cases  their  lives,  to  the 
intellectual  and  moral  awakening  of  those  who  sit  in  dark- 
ness. Nowhere  are  these  signs  more  abundant  than  in  our 
own  beloved  land.  Before  the  sun  sets  on  one  of  these  new 
centers  of  civilization  it  arises  upon  another. 

While  in  America  and  in  Europe  there  is  much  to  be  cor- 
rected and  abundant  room  for  improvement,  there  has 
never  been  so  much  altruism  in  the  world  as  there  is  to-day 
— never  so  many  who  acknowledge  the  indissoluble  tie  that 
binds  each  to  every  other  member  of  the  race.  I  have 
felt  more  pride  in  my  own  countrymen  than  ever  before 
as  I  have  visited  the  circuit  of  schools,  hospitals,  and 
churches  which  American  money  has  built  around  the 
world.  The  example  of  the  Christian  nations,  though  but 
feebly  reflecting  the  light  of  the  Master,  is  gradually  re- 
forming society. 

On  the  walls  of  the  temple  at  Karnak  an  ancient  artist 
carved  a  picture  of  an  Egyptian  king.  He  is  represented 
as  holding  a  group  of  captives  by  the  hair — one  hand 
raising  a  club  as  if  to  strike  them.  No  king  would  be  will- 
ing to  confess  himself  so  cruel  to-day.  In  some  of  the 
capitals  of  Europe  there  are  monuments  built  from,  or 
ornamented  with,  cannon  taken  in  war.  That  form  of 
boasting  is  still  tolerated,  but  let  us  hope  that  it  will  in 
time  give  way  to  some  emblem  of  victory  which  will  imply 
helpfulness  rather  than  slaughter. 


378  American  Literature 

8.  Finley  Peter  Dunne  (1867-  )  was  for  some  years  a 
journalist  in  Chicago.  He  is  famous  for  his  humorous  comments 
on  current  events  under  the  name  of  Mr.  Dooley. 

Books 
(From  Mr.  Dooley  Says) 

"Well,  sir,  if  there's  wan  person  in  th'  wumild  that  I 
really  invoy  'tis  me  frind  th'  ex-prisidint  iv  Harvard.  What 
a  wondherful  thing  is  youth.  Old  fellows  like  ye'ersilf  an' 
me  make  a  bluff  about  th'  avantages  iv  age.  But  we  know 
there's  nawthing  in  it.  We  have  wisdom  but  we  wud 
rather  have  hair.  We  have  expeeryence,  but  we  wud 
thrade  all  iv  its  lessons  f'r  hope  and  teeth. 

"It  makes  me  cross  to  see  mesilf  settin'  here  takin'  a 
post-grajate  coorse  in  our  cillybrated  univarsity  iv  th' 
Wicked  Wurruld  an'  watching  th'  freshmen  comin'  in. 
How  happy  they  are  but  how  seeryous.  How  sure  they 
are  iv  iverything.  Us  old  fellows  are  sure  iv  nawthin' ;  we 
laugh  but  we  are  not  cheerful;  but  we  have  no  romance 
about  th'  colledge.  Ye  don't  hear  us  givin'  nine  long  cheers 
f'r  our  almy  mather.  We  ain't  even  thankful  f'r  th'  lessons 
it  teaches  us  or  th'  wallops  it  hands  us  whin  we  f 'rget  what 
we've  been  taught.  We're  a  sad  lot  iv  old  la-ads,  hatin' 
th'  school,  but  hatin'  th'  graduation  exercises  aven  more. 

"But  'tis  a  rale  pleasure  to  see  th'  bright-faced  freshmen 
comin'  in  an'  I  welcome  th'  last  young  fellow  fr'm  Harvard 
to  our  vin'rable  institution.  I  like  to  see  these  earnest, 
clear-eyed  la-ads  comin'  in  to  waken  th'  echoes  iv  our  grim 
walls  with  their  young  voices.  I'm  sure  th'  other  undher- 
gradjates  will  like  him.  He  hasn't  been  spoiled  be  bein' 
th'  star  iv  his  school  f'r  so  long.  Charles  seems  to  me  to 
be  th'  normal  healthy  boy.  He  does  exactly  what  all 
freshmen  in  our  univarsity  do  whin  they  enther.  He  tells 
people  what  books  they  shud  read  an'  he  invints  a  new 
relligon.  Ivry  well-ordhered  la-ad  has  to  get  these  two 
things  out  iv  his  system  at  wanst. 

"What  books  does  he  advise,  says  ye?  I  haven't  got 
th'  complete  list  yet,  but  what  I  seen  iv  it  was  good. 


Later  and  Present- Day  Writers  379 

Speakin'  f'r  mesilf  alone,  I  don't  read  books.  They  are  too 
stimylatin'.  I  can  get  th'  wrong  idees  iv  life  fr'm  dhrink. 
But  I  shud  say  that  if  a  man  was  a  confirmed  book-reader, 
if  he  was  a  man  that  cuddent  go  to  sleep  without  takin'  a 
book  an'  if  he  read  befure  breakfast,  I  shud  think  that  Dr. 
Eliot's  very  old  vatted  books  are  comparatively  harmless. 
They  are  sthrong,  it  is  thrue.  They  will  go  to  th'  head.  I 
wud  advise  a  man  who  is  aisily  affected  be  books  to  stick 
to  Archibald  Clavering  Gunter.  But  they  will  hurt  no 
man  who's  used  to  readin'.  He  has  sawed  thim  out  care- 
fully. 'Give  me  me  tools,'  says  he,  'an'  I  will  saw  out  a 
five  foot  shelf  iv  books.'  An'  he  done  it.  He  has  th' 
right  idee.  He  real-izes  that  the  first  thing  to  have  in  a 
libry  is  a  shelf.  Fr'm  time  to  time  this  can  be  decorated 
with  lithrachure.  But  th'  shelf  is  th'  main  thing.  Other- 
wise th'  Hbry  may  get  mixed  up  with  th'  readin'  matther 
on  th'  table.  Th'  shelf  shud  thin  be  nailed  to  th'  wall 
iliven  feet  fr'm  th'  flure  an'  hermetically  sealed. 

''What  books  does  he  riccomind?  Iv  course  there's 
such  folk-lore  as  Epicalaulus  in  Marsupia  an'  th'  wurrks  iv 
Hyperphrastus.  But  it  shows  how  broad  an'  indulgent  th' 
doctor's  taste  is  that  he  has  included  Milton's  Arryopatigica, 
if  I  have  th'  name  right.  This  is  what  you  might  call 
summer  readin'.  I  don't  know  how  I  cud  describe  it  to 
ye,  Hinnissy.  Ye  wuddent  hardly  call  it  a  detective  story 
an'  yet  it  aint  a  problem  play.  Areopapigica  is  a  Greek 
gur-rl  who  becomes  th'  editor  iv  a  daily  newspaper.  That 
is  th'  beginning  iv  th'  plot.  I  won't  tell  ye  how  it  comes 
out.  I  don't  want  to  spile  ye'er  injymint  iv  it.  But  ye'll 
niver  guess  who  committed  th'  crime.  It  is  absolutely  un- 
expicted.  A  most  injanyous  book  an'  wan  iv  th'  best 
sellers  in  its  day.  There  are  four  editions  iv  thirty  copies 
each  an'  I  don't  know  how  manny  paper-covered  copies 
at  fifty  cents  were  printed  f'r  th'  circulation  on  th'  mail  • 
coaches.  I'm  not  sure  if  it  iver  was  dhramatized;  if  it 
wasn't  there's  a  chanst  f'r  some  manager. 

"Th'  darin'  rescue  iv  Areopatigica  be  Oliver  Cromwell 
— but  I  won't  tell  ye.  Ye  must  read  it.  There  ar-re  some 
awful  comical  things  in  it.     I  don't  agree  with  Uncle  Joe 


380  American  Literature 

Cannon,  who  says  it  is  trashy.  It  is  light,  perhaps,  even 
frivolous.  But  it  has  gr-reat  merit.  I  can't  think  iv  any- 
thing that  wud  be  more  agreeable  thin  lyin'  in  a  hammock, 
with  a  glass  iv  somethin'  in  ye'er  hand  on  a  hot  day  an' 
readin'  this  little  jim  iv  pure  English  an'  havin'  a  proffissor 
fr'm  colledge  within  aisy  call  to  tell  ye  what  it  all  meant. 
I  niver  go  f'r  a  long  journey  without  a  copy  iv  Milton's 
Agropapitica  in  me  pocket.  I  have  lent  it  to  brakemen 
an'  they  have  invariably  returned  it.  I  have  read  it  to  men 
that  wanted  to  fight  me  an'  quited  thim. 

*'  Yet  how  few  people  iv  our  day  have  read  it !  I'll  bet  ye 
eight  dollars  that  if  ye  wait  till  th'  stores  let  out  ye  can  go 
on  th'  sthreet  an'  out  iv  ivry  ten  men  ye  meet  at  laste  two, 
an'  I'll  take  odds  on  three,  have  niver  aven  heerd  iv  this 
pow'-ful  thragedy.  Yet  while  it  was  runnin'  ye  cudden't 
buy  a  copy  iv  th'  Fireside  Companyon  an'  f'r  two  cinchries 
it  has  proticted  th'  shelves  iv  more  hbries  thin  anny  iv 
Milton's  pomes,  f'r  Hogan  tells  me  this  author,  who  ye 
hardly  iver  hear  mentioned  in  th'  sthreet  cars  at  th'  prisint 
moment,  was  a  pote  as  well  as  an  author  an'  blind  at  that, 
an'  what  is  more,  held  a  prom'nent  pollytickal  job.  I 
wondher  if  two  hundred  years  fr'm  now  people  will  cease 
to  talk  iv  William  Jennings  Bryan.  He  won't,  but  will 
they?" 

There  is  a  remarkably  brilliant  group  of  university  men 
still  living  who  have  done  much  for  education  not  only 
as  instructors  and  directors,  but  through  their  writings. 
And  the  literary  style  of  their  work  qualifies  it  for  notice 
in  any  history  of  American  literature  which  includes  pres- 
ent-day authors.  Among  them  are  several  college  presi- 
dents and  many  university  professors.  The  selection  made 
here  is  considered  representative. 

9.  Charles  William  Eliot  (1834-  ),  president  emeritus 
of  Harvard,  is  probably  the  most  eminent  living  educator  in 
America.  He  was  chosen  president  of  Harvard  in  1869  and 
held  the  position  forty  years.     During  that  time  he  played  an 


Later  and  Present- Day  Writers  381 

important  part  in  shaping  American  ideals  of  education.    He 
has  written  many  essays  and  books  on  educational  subjects. 

John  Gilley 

(From  John  Gilley,  Maine  Farmer  and  Fisherman) 

John  Gilley's  first  venture  was  the  purchase  of  a  part 
of  a  small  coasting  schooner  called  the  Preference,  which 
could  carry  about  one  hundred  tons,  and  cost  between 
eight  and  nine  hundred  dollars.  He  became  responsible 
for  one- third  of  her  value,  paying  down  one  or  two  hundred 
dollars,  which  his  father  probably  lent  him.  For  the  rest 
of  the  third  he  obtained  credit  for  a  short  time  from  the 
seller  of  the  vessel.  The  other  two  owners  were  men  who 
belonged  on  Great  Cranberry  Island.  The  owners  pro- 
ceeded to  use  their  purchase  during  all  the  mild  weather 
— perhaps  six  months  of  each  year — in  carrying  paving- 
stones  to  Boston.  These  stones,  unlike  the  present  rec- 
tangular granite  blocks,  were  smooth  cobblestones  picked 
up  on  the  outside  beaches  of  the  neighboring  islands.  They 
of  course  were  not  found  on  any  inland  or  smooth-water 
beaches,  but  only  where  heavy  waves  rolled  the  beach- 
stones  up  and  down.  The  crew  of  the  Preference  must 
therefore  anchor  her  off  an  exposed  beach,  and  then,  with 
a  large  dory,  boat  off  to  her  the  stones  which  they  picked 
up  by  hand.  This  work  was  possible  only  during  moderate 
weather.  The  stones  must  be  of  tolerably  uniform  size, 
neither  too  large  nor  too  small;  and  each  one  had  to  be 
selected  by  the  eye  and  picked  up  by  the  hand.  When 
the  dory  was  loaded,  it  had  to  be  lifted  off  the  beach  by 
the  men  standing  in  the  water,  and  rowed  out  to  the  vessel; 
and  there  every  single  stone  had  to  be  picked  up  by  hand 
and  thrown  on  to  the  vessel.  A  hundred  tons  having  been 
thus  got  aboard  by  sheer  hard  work  of  human  muscle,  the 
old  craft,  which  was  not  too  seaworthy,  was  sailed  to 
Boston,  to  be  discharged  at  what  was  then  called  the 
''Stone  Wharf"  in  Charles  town.  There  the  crew  threw 
the  stones  out  of  her  hold  on  to  the  wharf  by  hand.  They 
therefore   lifted   and    threw  these  hundred  tons  of  stone 


382  American  Literature 

three  times  at  least  before  they  were  deposited  on  the 
city's  wharf.  The  cobblestones  were  the  main  freight  of 
the  vessel;  but  she  also  carried  dried  fish  to  Boston,  and 
fetched  back  goods  to  the  island  stores  of  the  vicinity. 
Some  of  the  island  people  bought  their  flour,  sugar,  dry- 
goods,  and  other  family  stores  in  Boston  through  the  cap- 
tain of  the  schooner.  John  Gilley  soon  began  to  go  as 
captain,  being  sometimes  accompanied  by  the  other  owners 
and  sometimes  by  men  on  wages.  He  was  noted  among 
his  neighbors  for  the  care  and  good  judgment  with  which 
he  executed  their  various  commissions,  and  he  knew  him- 
self to  be  trusted  by  them.  This  business  he  followed  for 
several  years,  paid  off  his  debt  to  the  seller  of  the  schooner, 
and  began  to  lay  up  money.  It  was  an  immense  satisfaction 
to  him  to  feel  himself  thus  established  in  an  honest  business 
which  he  understood,  and  in  which  he  was  making  his  way. 
There  are  few  soHder  satisfactions  to  be  won  in  this  world 
by  anybody,  in  any  condition  of  life.  The  scale  of  the 
business — large  or  small — makes  little  difference  in  the 
measure  of  content. 


In  1884  the  extreme  western  point  of  Sutton's  Island 
was  sold  to  a  *' Westerner,"  a  professor  in  Harvard  College, 
and  shortly  after  a  second  sale  in  the  same  neighborhood 
was  effected;  but  it  was  not  until  1886  that  John  Gilley 
made  his  first  sale  of  land  for  summering  purposes.  In 
the  next  year  he  made  another  sale,  and  in  1894  a  third. 
The  prices  he  obtained,  though  moderate  compared  with 
the  prices  charged  at  Bar  Harbor  or  North-East  Harbor, 
were  forty  or  fifty  times  any  price  which  had  ever  been 
put  on  his  farm  by  the  acre.  Being  thus  provided  with 
what  was  for  him  a  considerable  amount  of  ready  money, 
he  did  what  all  his  like  do  when  they  come  into  possession 
of  ready  money — he  first  gave  himself  and  his  family  the 
pleasure  of  enlarging  and  improving  his  house  and  other 
buildings,  and  then  lent  the  balance  on  small  mortgages 
on  village  real  estate.  Suddenly  he  became  a  prosperous 
man,  at  ease,  and  a  leader  in  his  world.     Up  to  this  time, 


Later  and  Present- Day  Writers  383 

since  his  second  marriage,  he  had  merely  earned  a  com- 
fortable livelihood  by  diversified  industry;  but  now  he 
possessed  a  secured  capital  in  addition  to  his  farm  and  his 
buildings.  At  last,  he  was  highly  content,  but  neverthe- 
less ready  as  ever  for  new  undertakings.  His  mind  was 
active,  and  his  eye  and  hand  were  steady. 

When  three  cottages  had  stood  for  several  years  on  the 
eastern  foreside  of  North-East  Harbor, — the  nearest  point 
of  the  shore  of  Mount  Desert  to  Sutton's  Island, — John 
Gilley,  at  the  age  of  seventy-one,  undertook  to  deliver  at 
these  houses  milk,  eggs,  and  fresh  vegetables  every  day, 
and  chickens  and  fowls  when  they  were  wanted.  This 
undertaking  involved  his  rowing  in  all  weathers  nearly 
two  miles  from  his  cove  to  the  landings  of  these  houses, 
and  back  again,  across  bay  waters  which  are  protected 
indeed  from  the  heavy  ocean  swells,  but  are  still  able  to 
produce  what  the  natives  call  ''a  big  chop."  Every  morn- 
ing he  arrived  with  the  utmost  punctuaKty,  in  rain  or 
shine,  calm  or  blow,  and  alone,  unless  it  blew  heavily  from 
the  northwest  (a  head  wind  from  Sutton's),  or  his  little 
grandson — his  mate,  as  he  called  the  boy — wanted  to  ac- 
company him  on  a  fine,  still  morning.  Soon  he  extended 
his  trips  to  the  western  side  of  North-East  Harbor,  where 
he  found  a  much  larger  market  for  his  goods  than  he  had 
found  thirty-five  years  before,  when  he  first  delivered  milk 
at  Squire  Kimball's  tavern.  This  business  involved  what 
was  new  work  for  John  Gilley,  namely,  the  raising  of  fresh 
vegetables  in  much  larger  variety  and  quantity  than  he 
was  accustomed  to.  He  entered  on  this  new  work  with 
interest  and  intelligence,  but  was  of  course  sometimes  de- 
feated in  his  plans  by  wet  weather  in  spring,  a  drought  in 
summer,  or  by  the  worms  and  insects  which  unexpectedly 
attacked  his  crops.  On  the  whole  he  was  decidedly  suc- 
cessful in  this  enterprise  undertaken  at  seventy-one. 
Those  who  bought  of  him  Uked  to  deal  with  him,  and  he 
found  in  the  business  fresh  interest  and  pleasure.  Not 
many  men  take  up  a  new  out-of-door  business  at  seventy, 
and  carry  it  on  successfully  by  their  own  brains  and  mus- 
cles.    It  was  one  of  the  sources  of  his  satisfaction  that  he 


384  American  Literature 

thus  supplied  the  two  daughters  who  still  lived  at  his  house 
with  a  profitable  outlet  for  their  energies.  One  of  these — 
the  school-teacher — was  an  excellent  laundress,  and  the 
other  was  devoted  to  the  work  of  the  house  and  the  farm, 
and  was  helpful  in  her  father's  new  business.  John  Gilley 
transported  the  washes  from  North-East  Harbor  and  back 
again  in  his  rowboat,  and  under  the  new  conditions  of  the 
place  washing  and  ironing  proved  to  be  more  profitable 
than  school-keeping. 

In  the  fall  of  1896  the  family  which  had  occupied  that 
summer  one  of  the  houses  John  Gilley  was  in  the  habit  of 
supplying  with  milk,  eggs,  and  vegetables,  and  which  had 
a  young  child  dependent  on  the  milk,  lingered  after  the 
other  summer  households  had  departed.  He  consented  to 
continue  his  daily  trips  a  few  days  into  October  that  the 
child's  milk  might  not  be  changed,  although  it  was  per- 
fectly clear  that  his  labor  could  not  be  adequately  recom- 
pensed. On  the  last  morning  but  one  that  he  was  to  come 
across  from  the  island  to  the  harbor  a  strong  northeast 
wind  was  blowing,  and  some  sea  was  running  through  the 
deep  passage  between  Sutton's  Island  and  Bear  Island, 
which  he  had  to  cross  on  his  way  to  and  fro.  He  took 
with  him  in  his  boat  the  young  man  who  had  been  work- 
ing for  him  on  the  farm  the  few  weeks  past.  They 
delivered  the  milk,  crossed  to  the  western  side  of  North- 
East  Harbor,  did  some  errands  there,  and  started  cheer- 
fully for  home,  as  John  Gilley  had  done  from  that  shore 
hundreds  of  times  before.  The  boy  rowed  from  a  seat  near 
the  bow,  and  the  old  man  sat  on  the  thwart  near  the  stern, 
facing  the  bow,  and  pushing  his  oars  from  him.  They  had 
no  thought  of  danger;  but  to  ease  the  rowing  they  kept  to 
windward  under  Bear  Island,  and  then  pushed  across  the 
deep  channel,  south  by  west,  for  the  western  point  of 
Sutton's  Island.  They  were  more  than  half-way  across 
when,  through  some  inattention  or  lack  of  skill  on  the 
part  of  the  young  man  in  the  bow,  a  sea  higher  or  swifter 
than  the  rest  threw  a  good  deal  of  water  into  the  boat. 
John  Gilley  immediately  began  to  bail,  and  told  the  rower 
to  keep  her  head  to  the  waves.     The  overweighted  boat 


Later  and  Present- Day  Writers  385 

was  less  manageable  than  before,  and  in  a  moment  another 
roller  turned  her  completely  over.  Both  men  clung  to  the 
boat  and  climbed  on  to  her  bottom.  She  drifted  away 
before  the  wind  and  sea  toward  South-West  Harbor.  The 
oversetting  of  the  boat  had  been  seen  from  both  Bear 
Island  and  Sutton's  Island;  but  it  was  nearly  three  quar- 
ters of  an  hour  before  the  rescuers  could  reach  the  floating 
boat,  and  then  the  young  man,  though  unconscious,  was 
still  cHnging  to  the  boat's  keel,  but  the  old  man,  chilled 
\)y  the  cold  water  and  stunned  by  the  waves  which  beat 
about  his  head,  had  lost  his  hold  and  sunk  into  the  sea. 
In  half  an  hour  John  Gilley  had  passed  from  a  hearty  and 
successful  old  age  in  this  world,  full  of  its  legitimate  in- 
terests and  satisfactions,  into  the  voiceless  mystery  of 
death.  No  trace  of  his  body  was  ever  found.  It  dis- 
appeared into  the  waters  on  which  he  had  played  and 
worked  as  boy  and  man  all  his  long  and  fortunate  life. 
He  left  his  family  well  provided  for,  and  full  of  gratitude 
and  praise  for  his  honorable  career  and  his  sterHng  char- 
acter. 

This  is  the  life  of  one  of  the  forgotten  millions.  It  con- 
tains no  material  for  distinction,  fame,  or  long  remem- 
brance; but  it  does  contain  the  material  and  present  the 
scene  for  a  normal  human  development  through  mingled 
joy  and  sorrow,  labor  and  rest,  adversity  and  success,  and 
through  the  tender  loves  of  childhood,  maturity,  and  age. 
We  cannot  but  believe  that  it  is  just  for  countless  quiet, 
simple  lives  like  this  that  God  made  and  upholds  this 
earth. 

lo.  Thomas  R.  Lounsbury  (1838-  )  is  a  professor  of 
English  at  Yale.  He  has  written  much  about  Shakespeare  and 
Browning  and  made  many  contributions  to  the  study  of  the 
English  language. 

Browning's  Unpopularity 

(From  The  Early  Literary  Career  of  Robert  Browning) 

We  know  now  that  Browning  felt  keenly  the  injustice 
with  which  he  was  treated.     We  learn  much  about  his 


386  Ajnerican  Literature 

attitude  from  his  wife's  correspondence.  Her  resentment 
of  the  neglect  he  experienced  was  greater  than  his  own; 
at  least  it  has  reached  us  more  definitely.  "To  you,''^  she 
wrote  to  Browning's  sister  in  i860,  "I  may  say,  that  the 
bUndness,  deafness,  and  stupidity  of  the  EngUsh  pubHc 
to  Robert  are  amazing.  Robert  is.  All  England  can't 
prevent  his  existence,  I  suppose.  But  nobody  there, 
except  a  small  knot  of  pre-Raffaelite  men,  pretends  to  do 
him  justice.  Mr.  Forster  has  done  the  best  in  the  press. 
As  a  sort  of  lion,  Robert  has  his  range  in  society,  and,  for 
the  rest,  you  should  see  Chapman's  returns;  while  in 
America,  he's  a  power,  a  writer,  a  poet.  He  is  read — • 
he  hves  in  the  hearts  of  the  people."  The  contrast  be- 
tween the  estimate  in  which  she  and  her  husband  were  held 
in  their  own  country  and  the  feeling  entertained  about 
them  in  this,  she  expressed  with  a  good  deal  of  bitterness. 
"For  the  rest,"  she  continued,  "the  English  hunt  Uons 
too,  but  their  favorite  lions  are  chosen  among  'lords* 
chiefly,  or  'railroad  kings.'  'It's  worth  eating  much  dirt/ 
said  an  Englishman  of  high  family  and  character  here,  *  to 

get  to  Lady  's  soiree.'     Americans  will  eat  dirt  to 

get  to  us.     There's  the  difference." 

A  year  later  Mrs.  Browning  records  an  instance  of  the 
ignorance  prevaihng  about  her  husband  and  his  work  which, 
did  it  come  from  any  other  source  than  herself,  it  would  be 
hard  to  credit.  It  occurs  in  a  letter  sent  to  her  sister-in- 
law  from  Rome  in  186 1.  In  it  she  speaks  again  of  the  atti- 
tude of  his  countrymen  toward  her  husband  and  his  sense 
of  its  injustice.  "His  treatment  in  England,"  she  wrote, 
"affects  him  naturally — and  for  my  part  I  set  it  down  as 
an  infamy  of  that  pubhc — no  other  word.  He  says  he 
has  told  you  some  things  you  had  not  heard,  and  which, 
I  acknowledge,  I  always  try  to  prevent  him  from  repeating 
to  any  one.  I  wonder  if  he  has  told  you  besides  (no,  I 
fancy  not)  that  an  English  lady  of  rank,  an  acquaintance 
of  ours  (observe  that !)  asked,  the  other  day,  the  American 
Minister  whether  Robert  was  not  an  American.  The  Min- 
ister answered,  'Is  it  possible  that  you  ask  me  this?  Why, 
there  is  not  so  poor  a  village  in  the  United  States  where 


Later  and  Present- Day  Writers  387 

they  would  not  tell  you  that  Robert  Browning  was  an 
EngHshman,  and  that  they  were  very  sorry  that  he  was 
not  an  American.'  Very  pretty  of  the  American  Min- 
ister— was  it  not? — and  literally  true  besides." 

Undoubtedly  the  popularity  of  Browning  in  this  country 
was  exaggerated  by  his  wife  to  give  point  to  the  contrast. 
But  there  is  no  question  that  the  reading  public  in  England 
remained  for  a  long  time  scandalously  indifferent  to  his 
achievement  and  showed  but  slight  appreciation  of  its 
greatness.  The  fact  of  the  neglect  must  be  conceded. 
Is  there  any  explanation  of  it,  any  palliation  for  it?  Is 
there  in  particular  any  ground  for  the  charge  of  unneces- 
sary and  wilful  obscurity  of  meaning  and  harshness  of 
versification,  which  whether  really  existing  or  merely 
asserted  to  exist  militated  constantly  against  the  accep- 
tance of  the  poet  as  poet?  Browning  himself  was  from 
the  beginning  well  aware  of  his  reputation  for  lack  of  clear- 
ness. In  a  letter  sent  in  April,  1845,  to  his  future  wife  he 
remarked  that  something  he  had  written  to  her  previously 
was  ''pretty  sure  to  meet  the  usual  fortune  of  my  writings 
— you  will  ask  what  it  means."  At  times  this  complaint 
of  obscurity  ajBforded  him  matter  for  jest.  He  was  fond 
of  repeating  a  remark  of  Wordsworth  about  his  marriage 
to  Miss  Barrett.  ''I  hope,"  said  the  veteran  poet,  ''that 
these  young  people  will  make  themselves  intelligible  to 
each  other,  for  neither  of  them  will  ever  be  intelligible  to 
anybody  else."  The  woman  soon  to  be  his  wife  admitted 
her  own  liabihty  to  this  charge  of  obscurity.  Occasionally 
too  she  herself  found  her  future  husband  unintelUgible. 
*' People  say  of  you  and  me,"  she  wrote  to  him  in  the  be- 
ginning of  their  acquaintance,  "that  we  love  the  darkness 
and  use  a  Sphinxine  idiom  in  our  talk."  She  went  on  to 
make  a  personal  application  of  this  view  to  something 
which  he  had  been  writing  to  her.  "Really,"  she  said, 
^'you  do  talk  a  little  like  a  Sphinx." 

II.  George  Herbert  Palmer  (1842-  ),  for  many  years  a 
professor  at  Harvard,  is  a  frequent  contributor  to  educational 
periodicals.  His  prose  translation  of  Homer's  Odyssey  has 
become  an  English  classic. 


388  American  Literature 

The  Vocabulary 

(From  Self-Cultivation  in  English) 

Obviously,  good  English  is  exact  English.  Our  words 
should  fit  our  thoughts  like  a  glove,  and  be  neither  too  wide 
nor  too  tight.  If  too  wide,  they  will  include  much  vacuity 
beside  the  intended  matter.  If  too  tight,  they  will  check 
the  strong  grasp.  Of  the  two  dangers,  looseness  is  by  far 
the  greater.  There  are  people  who  say  what  they  mean 
with  such  a  naked  precision  that  nobody  not  famihar 
with  the  subject  can  quickly  catch  the  sense.  George 
Herbert  and  Emerson  strain  the  attention  of  many.  But 
niggardly  and  angular  speakers  are  rare.  Too  frequently 
words  signify  nothing  in  particular.  They  are  merely 
thrown  out  in  a  certain  direction,  to  report  a  vague  and 
undetermined  meaning  or  even  a  general  emotion.  The 
first  business  of  every  one  who  would  train  himself  in 
language  is  to  articulate  his  thought,  to  know  definitely 
what  he  wishes  to  say,  and  then  to  pick  those  words  which 
compel  the  hearer  to  think  of  this  and  only  this.  For 
such  a  purpose  two  words  are  often  better  than  three.  The 
fewer  the  words,  the  more  pungent  the  impression.  Brev- 
ity is  the  soul  not  simply  of  a  jest,  but  of  wit  in  its  finest 
sense  where  it  is  identical  with  wisdom.  He  who  can  put 
a  great  deal  into  a  little  is  the  master.  Since  firm  texture 
is  what  is  wanted,  not  embroidery  or  superposed  ornament, 
beauty  has  been  well  defined  as  the  purgation  of  super- 
fluities. And  certainly  many  a  paragraph  might  have  its 
beauty  brightened  by  letting  quiet  words  take  the  place 
of  its  loud  words,  omitting  its  *'verys,"  and  striking  out 
its  purple  patches  of  ''fine  writing."  Here  is  Ben  Jonson's 
description  of  Bacon's  language:  ''There  happened  in  my 
time  one  noble  speaker  who  was  full  of  gravity  in  his  speech. 
No  man  ever  spoke  more  neatly,  more  pressly,  more 
weightily,  or  suffered  less  emptiness,  less  idleness,  in  what 
he  uttered.  No  member  of  his  speech  but  consisted  of 
his  own  graces.  His  hearers  could  not  cough  or  look 
aside  without  loss.  He  commanded  when  he  spoke,  and 
had  his  judges  angry  or  pleased  at  his  discretion."     Such 


Later  and  Present- Day  Writers  389 

are  the  men  who  command,  men  who  speak  "neatly  and 
pressly."  But  to  gain  such  precision  is  toilsome  business. 
While  we  are  in  training  for  it,  no  word  must  unpermittedly 
pass  the  portal  of  the  teeth.  Something  like  what  we  mean 
must  never  be  counted  equivalent  to  what  we  mean. 
And  if  we  are  not  sure  of  our  meaning  or  of  our  word,  we 
must  pause  until  we  are  sure.  Accuracy  does  not  come 
of  itself.  For  persons  who  can  use  several  languages, 
capital  practice  in  acquiring  it  can  be  had  by  translating 
from  one  language  to  another  and  seeing  that  the  entire 
sense  is  carried  over.  Those  who  have  only  their  native 
speech  will  find  it  profitable  often  to  attempt  definitions 
of  the  common  words  they  use.  Inaccuracy  will  not 
stand  up  against  the  habit  of  definition.  Dante  boasted 
that  rhythmic  exigency  had  ever  made  him  say  what  he 
did  not  mean.  We  heedless  and  unintending  speakers, 
under  no  exigency  of  rhyme  or  reason,  say  what  we  mean 
but  seldom  and  still  more  seldom  mean  what  we  say. 
To  hold  our  thoughts  and  words  in  significant  adjustment 
requires  unceasing  consciousness,  a  perpetual  determina- 
tion not  to  tell  lies;  for  of  course  every  inaccuracy  is  a  bit 
of  untruthfulness.  We  have  something  in  mind,  yet  con- 
vey something  else  to  our  hearer.  And  no  moral  purpose 
will  save  us  from  this  untruthfulness  unless  that  purpose 
is  sufficient  to  inspire  the  daily  drill  which  brings  the  power 
to  be  true.  Again  and  again  we  are  shut  up  to  evil  be- 
cause we  have  not  acquired  the  ability  of  goodness. 


Why,  then,  do  we  hesitate  to  swell  our  words  to  meet 
our  needs  ?  It  is  a  nonsense  question.  There  is  no  reason. 
We  are  simply  lazy;  too  lazy  to  make  ourselves  comfort- 
able. We  let  our  vocabularies  be  limited,  and  get  along 
rawly  without  the  refinements  of  human  intercourse, 
without  refinements  in  our  own  thoughts;  for  thoughts 
are  almost  as  dependent  on  words  as  words  on  thoughts. 
For  example,  all  exasperations  we  lump  together  as  ''ag- 
gravating," not  considering  whether  they  may  not  rather 
be  displeasing,  annoying,  offensive,  disgusting,  irritating, 


390  American  Literature 

or  even  maddening;  and  without  observing,  too,  that  in 
our  reckless  usage  we  have  burned  up  a  word  which  might 
be  convenient  when  we  should  need  to  mark  some  shading 
of  the  word  'increase."  Like  the  bad  cook,  we  seize  the 
frying-pan  whenever  we  need  to  fry,  broil,  roast,  or  stew, 
and  then  we  wonder  why  all  our  dishes  taste  alike  while 
in  the  next  house  the  food  is  appetizing.  It  is  all  unneces- 
sary. Enlarge  the  vocabulary.  Let  any  one  who  wants 
to  see  himself  grow,  resolve  to  adopt  two  new  words  each 
week.  It  will  not  be  long  before  the  endless  and  enchant- 
ing variety  of  the  world  will  begin  to  reflect  itself  in  his 
speech,  and  in  his  mind  as  well.  I  know  that  when  we 
use  a  word  for  the  first  time  we  are  startled,  as  if  a  fire- 
cracker went  off  in  our  neighborhood.  We  look  about 
hastily  to  see  if  any  one  has  noticed.  But  finding  that  no 
one  has,  we  may  be  emboldened.  A  word  used  three  times 
slips  off  the  tongue  with  entire  naturalness.  Then  it  is 
ours  forever,  and  with  it  some  phase  of  life  which  had  been 
lacking  hitherto.  For  each  word  presents  its  own  point  of 
view,  discloses  a  special  aspect  of  things,  reports  some  Httle 
importance  not  otherwise  conveyed,  and  so  contributes  its 
small  emancipation  to  our  tied-up  minds  and  tongues. 

But  a  brief  warning  may  be  necessary  to  make  my  mean- 
ing clear.  In  urging  the  addition  of  new  words  to  our 
present  poverty-stricken  stock,  I  am  far  from  suggesting 
that  we  should  seek  out  strange,  technical,  or  inflated  ex- 
pressions, which  do  not  appear  in  ordinary  conversation. 
The  very  opposite  is  my  aim.  I  would  put  every  man 
who  is  now  employing  a  diction  merely  local  and  per- 
sonal in  command  of  the  approved  resources  of  the  En- 
glish language.  Our  poverty  usually  comes  through  pro- 
vinciality, through  accepting  without  criticism  the  habits 
of  our  special  set.  My  family,  my  immediate  friends, 
have  a  diction  of  their  own.  Plenty  of  other  words, 
recognized  as  sound,  are  known  to  be  current  in  books, 
and  to  be  employed  by  modest  and  intelligent  speakers, 
only  we  do  not  use  them.  Our  set  has  never  said  "dic- 
tion," or  "current,"  or  "scope,"  or  "scanty,"  or  "hitherto," 
or  "convey,"  or  "lack."    Far  from  unusual  as  these  words 


Later  and  Present-Day  Writers  391 

are,  to  adopt  them  might  seem  to  set  me  apart  from  those 
whose  intellectual  habits  I  share.  From  this  I  shrink.  I 
do  not  like  to  wear  clothes  suitable  enough  for  others,  but 
not  in  the  style  of  my  own  plain  circle.  Yet  if  each  one  of 
that  circle  does  the  same,  the  general  shabbiness  is  in- 
creased. The  talk  of  all  is  made  narrow  enough  to  fit  the 
thinnest  there.  What  we  should  seek  is  to  contribute  to 
each  of  the  little  companies  with  which  our  Hfe  is  bound 
up  a  gently  enlarging  influence,  such  impulses  as  will  not 
startle  or  create  detachment,  but  which  may  save  from 
humdrum,  routine,  and  dreary  usualness.  We  cannot  be 
really  kind  without  being  a  httle  venturesome.  The  small 
shocks  of  our  increasing  vocabulary  will  in  all  probability 
be  as  helpful  to  our  friends  as  to  ourselves.  < 

Such,  then,  are  the  excellences  of  speech.  If  we  would 
cultivate  ourselves  in  the  use  of  English,  we  must  make  our 
daily  talk  accurate,  daring,  and  full.  I  have  insisted  on 
these  points  the  more  because  in  my  judgment  all  literary 
power,  especially  that  of  busy  men,  is  rooted  in  sound 
speech.  .  .  . 

12.  Arlo  Bates  (1850-  ),  professor  of  English  at  the 
Massachusetts  Institute  of  Technology,  is  well  known  for  his 
essays  in  criticism.     He  has  also  written  novels  and  poems. 

New  Books 

(From  Talks  on  the  Study  of  Literature,  Chapter  XIII) 

The  quality  of  "timeliness"  is  one  of  the  things  which 
makes  it  especially  difficult  to  distinguish  among  new 
books.  There  is  in  this  day  an  ever-increasing  tendency  to 
treat  all  topics  of  popular  discussion  in  ways  which  profess 
to  be  imaginative,  and  especially  in  the  narrative  form. 
The  novel  with  a  theory  and  the  poem  with  a  purpose 
are  so  enveloped  with  the  glamour  of  immediate  interest 
that  they  appear  to  be  of  an  importance  far  beyond  that 
which  belongs  to  their  real  merit.  Curiosity  to  know  what 
these  books  have  to  say  upon  the  questions  which  most 
deeply  interest  or  most  vitally  affect  humanity  is  as  natural 
as  it  is  difficult  to  resist.    The  desire  to  see  what  a  book 


392  American  Literature 

which  is  talked  about  is  like  is  doubly  hard  to  overcome 
when  it  is  so  easily  excused  under  the  pretense  of  gaining 
light  on  important  questions.  Time  seems  to  be  proving, 
however,  that  the  amount  of  noise  made  over  these  theory- 
mongering  romances  is  pretty  nearly  in  adverse  ratio  to 
their  worth.  We  are  told  in  Scripture  that  wisdom  calleth 
in  the  streets,  and  no  man  regardeth,  but  the  opposite 
seems  to  be  true  of  the  clamors  of  error.  The  very  vehe- 
mence of  these  books  is  the  quality  which  secures  to  them 
attention;  and  it  is  impossible  wholly  to  ignore  them  and 
yet  to  keep  in  touch  with  the  time. 


The  practical  question  which  instantly  arises  is  how  one 
is  to  know  good  books  from  bad  until  one  has  read  them. 
How  to  distinguish  between  what  is  worthy  of  attention 
and  what  is  ephemeral  trash  has  perplexed  many  a  sincere 
and  earnest  student.  This  is  a  duty  which  should  devolve 
largely  upon  trained  critics,  but  unhappily  criticism  is 
not  to-day  in  a  condition  which  makes  it  reliable  or  prac- 
tically of  very  great  assistance  where  recent  publications 
are  concerned.  The  reader  is  left  to  his  own  judgment 
in  choosing  among  writings  hot  from  the  press.  Fortu- 
nately the  task  of  discriminating  is  not  impossible.  It  is 
even  far  less  difl&cult  than  it  first  appears.  The  reader  is 
seldom  without  a  pretty  clear  idea  of  the  character  of 
notorious  books  before  he  touches  them.  Where  the  multi- 
tude of  publications  is  so  great,  the  very  means  of  adver- 
tising which  are  necessary  to  bring  them  into  notice  show 
what  they  are.  Even  should  a  man  make  it  a  rule  to  read 
nothing  until  he  has  a  definite  estimate  of  its  merit,  he  will 
find  in  the  end  that  he  has  lost  little.  For  any  purposes 
of  the  cultivation  of  the  mind  or  the  imagination  the  book 
which  is  good  to  read  to-day  is  good  to  read  to-morrow,  so 
that  there  is  not  the  haste  about  reading  a  real  book  that 
there  is  in  getting  through  the  morning  paper,  which  be- 
comes obsolete  by  noon.  When  one  considers,  too,  how 
small  a  portion  of  the  volumes  pubHshed  it  is  possible  to 
have  time  for,  and  how  important  it  is  to  make  the  most 


Later  and  Present- Day  Writers  393 

of  life  by  having  these  of  the  best,  one  realizes  that  it  is 
worth  while  to  take  a  good  deal  of  trouble,  and  if  need  be 
to  sacrifice  the  superficial  enjoyment  of  keeping  in  the 
front  rank  of  the  mad  mob  of  sensation  seekers  whose  only 
idea  of  Hterary  merit  is  noise  and  novelty.  It  is  a  trivial 
and  silly  vanity  which  is  unhappy  because  somebody — or 
because  everybody — has  read  new  books  first. 

13.  David  Statrr  Jordan  (1851-  ),  until  recently  pres- 
ident of  Leland  Stanford  University,  California,  is  a  scientist 
and  a  writer  on  a  wide  range  of  subjects.  In  his  poems,  stories, 
and  essays  he  often  shows  the  touch  of  the  literary  artist. 

The  Death  of  McKinley 
(From  The  Lessons  of  the  Tragedy  in  The  Voice  of  the  Scholar) 

The  last  words  of  Garfield  were  these:  Strangulatus  pro 
Republica  (slain  for  the  Repubhc).  The  feudal  tyranny 
of  the  spoils  system  which  had  made  republican  adminis- 
tration a  farce,  has  not  had,  since  Garfield's  time  a  defender. 
It  has  not  vanished  from  our  poHtics,  but  its  place  is  where 
it  belongs — among  the  petty  wrongs  of  maladministration. 

Again  a  president  is  slain  for  the  Republic — and  the 
lesson  is  the  homely  one  of  peace  and  order,  patience  and 
justice,  respect  for  ourselves  through  respect  for  law,  for 
pubHc  welfare,  and  for  pubHc  right. 

For  this  country  is  passing  through  a  time  of  storm  and 
stress,  a  flurry  of  lawless  sensationaUsm.  The  irrespon- 
sible journaHsm,  the  industrial  wars,  the  display  of  hastily 
gotten  wealth,  the  grasping  of  monopoly,  the  walking 
delegate,  the  vulgar  cartoon,  the  foul-mouthed  agitator, 
the  sympathetic  strike,  the  unsympathetic  lockout,  are  all 
symptoms  of  a  single  disease — the  loss  of  patriotism,  the 
decay  of  the  sense  of  justice.  As  in  other  cases,  the  symp- 
toms feed  the  disease,  as  well  as  indicate  it.  The  deed  of 
violence  breeds  more  deeds  of  violence;  anarchy  provokes 
hysteria,  and  hysteria  makes  anarchy.  The  unfounded 
scandal  sets  a  hundred  tongues  to  wagging,  and  the  seepage 
from  the  gutter  reaches  a  thousand  homes.  .  .  . 


394  American  Literature 

The  gospel  of  discontent  has  no  place  within  our  Republic. 
It  is  true,  as  has  often  been  said,  that  discontent  is  the 
cause  of  human  progress.  It  is  truer  still,  as  Mr.  John  P. 
Irish  has  lately  pointed  out,  that  discontent  may  be  good 
or  bad,  according  to  its  relation  to  the  individual  man. 
There  is  a  noble  discontent  which  a  man  turns  against 
himself.  It  leads  the  man  who  fails,  to  examine  his  own 
weaknesses,  to  make  the  needed  repairs  in  himself,  then  to 
take  up  the  struggle  again.  There  is  a  cowardly  discontent 
which  leads  a  man  to  blame  all  failure  on  his  prosperous 
neighbor  or  on  society  at  large,  as  if  a  social  system  existed 
apart  from  the  men  who  make  it.  This  is  the  sort  of  dis- 
content to  which  the  agitator  appeals,  that  finds  its  stimulus 
in  sensational  journalism.  It  is  that  which  feeds  the  frenzy 
of  the  assassin  who  would  work  revenge  on  society  by  de- 
stroying its  accepted  head. 

The  real  Americans,  trying  to  live  their  lives  in  their 
own  way,  saving  a  little  of  their  earnings  and  turning  the 
rest  into  education  and  enjoyment,  have  many  grievances 
in  these  days  of  grasping  trusts  and  lawless  unions.  But 
of  such  free  Americans  our  country  is  made.  They  are  the 
people,  not  the  trusts  or  the  unions,  nor  their  sensational 
go-betweens.  This  is  their  government,  and  the  govern- 
ment of  the  people,  by  the  people,  and  for  the  people  shall 
not  perish  from  the  earth.  This  is  the  people's  president 
— our  president — who  was  killed,  and  it  is  ours  to  avenge 
him. 

Not  by  lynch  law  on  a  large  or  small  scale  may  we  do 
it;  not  by  anarchy  or  despotism;  not  by  the  destruction 
of  all  that  call  themselves  anarchists,  not  by  abridging 
freedom  of  the  press  nor  by  checking  freedom  of  speech. 
Those  who  would  wreak  lawless  vengeance  on  the  an- 
archists are  themselves  anarchists  and  makers  of  an- 
archists. 

We  have  laws  enough  already  without  making  more 
for  men  to  break.  Let  us  get  a  little  closer  to  the  higher 
law.  Let  us  respect  our  own  rights  and  those  of  our  neigh- 
bor a  little  better.  Let  us  cease  to  tolerate  sensational 
falsehood  about  our  neighbor,  or  vulgar  abuse  of  those  in 


Later  and  Present-Day  Writers  395 

power.  If  we  have  bad  rulers,  let  us  change  them  peace- 
fully. Let  us  put  an  end  to  every  form  of  intimidation, 
wherever  practiced.  The  cause  that  depends  upon  hurling 
rocks  or  epithets,  upon  clubbing  teamsters  or  deraiUng 
trains,  cannot  be  a  good  cause.  .  .  . 

We  trust  now  that  the  worst  has  come,  the  foulest  deed 
has  been  committed,  that  our  civil  wars  may  stop,  not 
through  the  victory  of  one  side  over  the  other,  the  trusts 
or  the  unions  now  set  off  against  each  other,  but  in  the 
victory  over  both  of  the  American  people,  of  the  great 
body  of  men  and  women  who  must  pay  for  all,  and  who* 
are  the  real  sufferers  in  every  phase  of  the  struggle. 

Strangulatus  pro  Republica — slain  for  the  Republic. 
The  lesson  is  plain.  It  is  for  us  to  take  it  into  our  daily 
lives.  It  is  the  lesson  of  peace  and  good-will,  the  lesson  of 
manhness  and  godHness.  Let  us  take  it  to  ourselves,  and 
our  neighbors  will  take  it  from  us.  .  .  . 

14.  Brander  Matthews  (1852-  )  is  a  professor  of  En- 
glish at  Columbia  University,  New  York  City,  who  has  written 
many  critical  essays.  His  studies  of  the  drama  and  the  short 
story  are  his  most  notable  contribution  to  American  literature. 

The  Story  of  '^My  Maryland'' 

(From  The  Songs  of  the  Civil  War,  in  Pen  and  Ink) 

A  National  hymn  is  one  of  the  things  which  cannot  be 
made  to  order.  No  man  has  ever  yet  sat  him  down  and 
taken  up  his  pen  and  said,  ''I  will  write  a  national  hymn," 
and  composed  either  words  or  music  which  a  nation  was 
willing  to  take  for  its  own.  The  making  of  the  song  of  the 
people  is  a  happy  accident,  not  to  be  accomplished  by 
taking  thought.  It  must  be  the  result  of  fiery  feeling 
long  confined,  and  suddenly  finding  vent  in  burning  words 
or  moving  strains.  Sometimes  the  heat  and  the  pressure 
of  emotion  have  been  fierce  enough  and  intense  enough  to 
call  forth  at  once  both  words  and  music,  and  to  weld  them 
together  indissolubly  once  and  for  all.  Almost  always  the 
maker  of  the  song  does  not  suspect  the  abiding  value  of 


396  American  Literature 

his  work;  he  has  wrought  unconsciously,  moved  by  a  power 
within;  he  has  written  for  immediate  relief  to  himself, 
and  with  no  thought  of  fame  or  the  future;  he  has  builded 
better  than  he  knew.  The  great  national  lyric  is  the  re- 
sult of  the  conjunction  of  the  hour  and  the  man.  Mon- 
archs  cannot  command  it,  and  even  poets  are  often  power- 
less to  achieve  it.  No  one  of  the  great  national  hymns 
has  been  written  by  a  great  poet. 


More  than  one  enterprising  poet,  and  more  than  one 
aspiring  musician,  has  volunteered  to  take  the  contract  to 
supply  the  deficiency;  as  yet  no  one  has  succeeded. 
^Yankee  Doodle'  we  got  during  the  Revolution,  and  the 
'Star-spangled  Banner'  was  the  gift  of  the  War  of  1812; 
from  the  Civil  War  we  have  received  at  least  two  war 
songs  which,  as  war  songs  simply,  are  stronger  and  finer 
than  either  of  these — 'John  Brown's  Body'  and  'March- 
ing Through  Georgia.' 

Of  the  lyrical  outburst  which  the  war  called  forth  but 
little  trace  is  now  to  be  detected  in  literature  except  by 
special  students.  In  most  cases  neither  words  nor  music 
have  had  vitality  enough  to  survive  a  quarter  of  a  century. 
Chiefly,  indeed,  two  things  only  survive,  one  Southern  and 
the  other  Northern;  one  a  war-cry  in  verse,  the  other  a 
martial  tune:  one  is  the  lyric  'My  Maryland,'  and  the 
other  is  the  marching  song  'John  Brown's  Body.'  The 
origin  and  development  of  the  latter,  the  rude  chant  to 
which  a  million  of  the  soldiers  of  the  Union  kept  time,  is 
uncertain  and  involved  in  dispute.  The  history  of  the 
former  may  be  declared  exactly,  and  by  the  courtesy  of 
those  who  did  the  deed — for  the  making  of  a  war  song  is 
of  a  truth  a  deed  at  arms — I  am  enabled  to  state  fully  the 
circumstances  under  which  it  was  written,  set  to  music, 
and  first  sung  before  the  soldiers  of  the  South. 

'My  Maryland'  was  written  by  Mr.  James  R.  Randall, 
a  native  of  Baltimore,  and  now  residing  in  Augusta, 
Georgia.  The  poet  was  a  professor  of  English  hterature 
and  the  classics  in  Poydras  College  at  Pointe  Coupee,  on 


Later  and  Present- Day  Writers  397 

i 

the  Fausse  Riviere,  in  Louisiana,  about  seven  miles  from 
the  Mississippi;  and  there  in  April,  1861,  he  read  in  the 
New  Orleans  Delta  the  news  of  the  attack  on  the  Massa- 
chusetts troops  as  they  passed  through  Baltimore.  ''This 
account  excited  me  greatly,"  Mr.  Randall  wrote  in  answer 
to  my  request  for  information;  "I  had  long  been  absent 
from  my  native  city,  and  the  starthng  event  there  inflamed 
my  mind.  That  night  I  could  not  sleep,  for  my  nerves 
were  all  unstrung,  and  I  could  not  dismiss  what  I  had  read 
in  the  paper  from  my  mind.  About  midnight  I  rose,  Ht 
a  candle,  and  went  to  my  desk.  Some  powerful  spirit 
appeared  to  possess  me,  and  almost  involuntarily  I  pro- 
ceeded to  write  the  song  of  'My  Maryland.'  I  remember 
that  the  idea  appeared  to  first  take  shape  as  music  in  the 
brain — some  wild  air  that  I  cannot  now  recall.  The  whole 
poem  was  dashed  off  rapidly  when  once  begun.  It  was 
not  composed  in  cold  blood,  but  under  what  may  be  called 
a  conflagration  of  the  senses,  if  not  an  inspiration  of  the 
intellect.  I  was  stirred  to  a  desire  for  some  way  linking 
my  name  with  that  of  my  native  State,  if  not  'with  my 
land's  language.'  But  I  never  expected  to  do  this  with 
one  single,  supreme  effort,  and  no  one  was  more  surprised 
than  I  was  at  the  widespread  and  instantaneous  popularity 
of  the  lyric  I  had  been  so  strongly  stimulated  to  write." 
Mr.  Randall  read  the  poem  the  next  morning  to  the  college 
boys,  and  at  their  suggestion  sent  it  to  the  Delta,  in  which 
it  was  first  printed,  and  from  which  it*  was  copied  into 
nearly  every  Southern  journal.  "I  did  not  concern  my- 
self miich  about  it,  but  very  soon,  from  all  parts  of  the 
country,  there  was  borne  to  me,  in  my  remote  place  of 
residence,  evidence  that  I  had  made  a  great  hit,  and  that, 
whatever  might  be  the  fate  of  the  Confederacy,  the  song 
would  survive  it." 


Unlike  the  authors  of  the  'Star-spangled  Banner'  and 
the  'Marseillaise,'  the  author  of  'My  Maryland'  had  not 
written  it  to  fit  a  tune  already  familiar.  It  was  left  for 
a  lady  of  Baltimore  to  lend  the  lyric  the  musical  wings  it 


398  American  Literature 

needed  to  enable  it  to  reach  every  camp-fire  of  the  Southern 
armies.  To  the  courtesy  of  this  lady,  then  Miss  Hetty 
Gary,  and  now  the  wife  of  Professor  H.  Newell  Martin, 
of  Johns  Hopkins  University,  I  am  indebted  for  a  pictur- 
esque description  of  the  marriage  of  the  words  to  the  music, 
and  of  the  first  singing  of  the  song  before  the  Southern 
troops. 

The  house  of  Mrs.  Martin's  father  was  the  headquarters 
for  the  Southern  sympathizers  of  Baltimore.  Correspon- 
dence, money,  clothing,  supplies  of  all  kinds  went  thence 
through  the  lines  to  the  young  men  of  the  Confederate 
army.  ''The  enthusiasm  of  the  girls  who  worked  and 
the  'boys'  who  watched  for  their  chance  to  sKp  through 
the  lines  to  Dixie's  land  found  vent  and  inspiration  in 
such  patriotic  songs  as  could  be  made  or  adapted  to  suit 
our  needs.  The  glee  club  was  to  hold  its  meeting  in  our 
parlors  one  evening  early  in  June,  and  my  sister,  Miss 
Jenny  Cary,  being  the  only  musical  member  of  the  family, 
had  charge  of  the  programme  on  the  occasion.  With  a 
school-girl's  eagerness  to  score  a  success,  she  resolved  to 
secure  some  new  and  ardent  expression  of  feelings  that  by 
this  time  were  wrought  up  to  the  point  of  explosion.  In 
vain  she  searched  through  her  stock  of  songs  and  airs — 
nothing  seemed  intense  enough  to  suit  her.  Aroused  by 
her  tone  of  despair,  I  came  to  the  rescue  with  the  sugges- 
tion that  she  should  adapt  the  words  of  'Maryland,  my 
Maryland,'  which  had  been  constantly  on  my  lips  since 
the  appearance  of  the  lyric  a  few  days  before  in  the  South. 
I  produced  the  paper  and  began  declaiming  the  verses. 
^Lauriger  Horatius,'  she  exclaimed,  and  in  a  flash  the 
immortal  song  found  voice  in  the  stirring  air  so  perfectly 
adapted  to  it.  That  night,  when  her  contralto  voice  rang 
out  the  stanzas,  the  refrain  rolled  forth  from  every  throat 
present  without  pause  or  preparation;  and  the  enthusiasm 
communicated  itself  with  such  effect  to  a  crowd  assembled 
beneath  our  open  windows  as  to  endanger  seriously  the 
liberties  of  the  party." 

'Lauriger  Horatius'  has  long  been  a  favorite  college 
song,  and  it  had  been  introduced  into  the  Cary  household 


Later  and  Present-Day  Writers  399 

by  Mr.  Burton  N.  Harrison,  then  a  Yale  student.  The 
air  to  which  it  is  sung  is  used  also  for  a  lovely  German 
lyric,  *  Tannenbaum,  O  Tannenbaum,'  which  Longfellow 
has  translated  'O  Hemlock  Tree.'  The  transmigration 
of  tunes  is  too  large  and  fertile  a  subject  for  me  to  do  more 
here  than  refer  to  it.  The  taking  of  the  air  of  a  jovial 
college  song  to  use  as  the  setting  of  a  fiery  war-lyric  may 
seem  strange  and  curious,  but  only  to  those  who  are  not 
familiar  with  the  adventures  and  transformations  a  tune 
is  often  made  to  undergo.  Hopkinson's  'Hail  Columbia!' 
for  example,  was  written  to  the  tune  of  the  'President's 
March,'  just  as  Mrs.  Howe's  'Battle-Hymn  of  the  Repub- 
lic' was  written  to  'John  Brown's  Body.'  The  'Wearing 
of  the  Green'  of  the  Irishman,  is  sung  to  the  same  air  as 
the  'Benny  Havens,  0 !'  of  the  West  Pointer.  The  'Star- 
spangled  Banner'  has  to  make  shift  with  the  second-hand 
music  of  'Anacreon  in  Heaven,'  while  our  other  national 
air,  'Yankee  Doodle,'  uses  over  the  notes  of  an  old  EngHsh 
nursery  rhyme,  'Lucy  Locket,'  once  a  personal  lampoon  in 
the  days  of  the  'Beggars'  Opera,'  and  now  surviving  in  the 
'Baby's  Opera'  of  Mr.  Walter  Crane.  'My  Country,  'tis 
of  Thee,'  is  set  to  the  truly  British  tune  of  '  God  Save  the 
King,'  the  origin  of  which  is  doubtful,  as  it  is  claimed  by 
the  French  and  the  Germans  as  well  as  the  EngHsh.  In  the 
hour  of  battle  a  war-tune  is  subject  to  the  right  of  capture, 
and,  Hke  the  cannon  taken  from  the  enemy,  it  is  turned 
against  its  maker. 

To  return  to  'My  Maryland': — a  few  weeks  after  the 
wedding  of  the  words  and  the  music,  Mrs.  Martin,  with 
her  husband  and  sister,  went  through  the  Hnes,  convoying 
several  trunks  full  of  military  clothing,  and  wearing  con- 
cealed about  her  person  a  flag  bearing  the  arms  of  Maryland, 
a  gift  from  the  ladies  of  Baltimore  to  the  Maryland  troops 
in  the  Confederate  army.  In  consequence  of  reports 
which  were  borne  back  to  the  Union  authorities  the  ladies 
were  forbidden  to  return.  "We  were  Kving,"  so  Mrs. 
Martin  writes  me,  "in  Virginia  in  exile,  when,  shortly 
after  the  battle  of  Manassas,  General  Beauregard,  hear- 
ing of  our  labors  and  sufferings  in  behalf  of  the  Mary- 


400  American  Literature 

landers  who  had  already  done  such  gallant  service  in  his 
command,  invited  us  to  visit  them  at  his  headquarters 
near  Fairfax  Court  House,  sending  a  pass  and  an  escort 
for  us,  and  the  friends  by  whom  we  should  be  accompanied. 
Our  party  encamped  the  first  night  in  tents  prepared  for 
us  at  Manassas,  with  my  kinsman.  Captain  Sterrell,  who 
was  in  charge  of  the  fortifications  there.  We  were  sere- 
naded by  the  famous  Washington  Artillery  of  New  Orleans, 
aided  by  all  the  fine  voices  within  reach.  Captain  Sterrell 
expressed  our  thanks,  and  asked  if  there  were  any  service 
we  might  render  in  return.  'Let  us  hear  a  woman's  voice' 
was  the  cry  which  arose  in  response.  And,  standing  in  the 
tent-door,  under  cover  of  the  darkness,  my  sister  sang 
*  My  Maryland ! '  This,  I  believe,  was  the  birth  of  the  song 
in  the  army.  The  refrain  was  speedily  caught  up  and 
tossed  back  to  us  from  hundreds  of  rebel  throats.  As  the 
last  notes  died  away  there  surged  forth  from  the  gathering 
throng  a  wild  shout — '  We  will  break  her  chains !  She 
shall  be  free !  She  shall  be  free !  Three  cheers  and  a  tiger 
for  Maryland  ! '  And  they  were  given  with  a  will.  There 
was  not  a  dry  eye  in  the  tent,  and,  we  were  told  the  next 
day,  not  a  cap  with  a  rim  on  it  in  camp.  Nothing  could 
have  kept  Mr.  Randall's  verses  from  living  and  growing 
into  a  power.  To  us  fell  the  happy  chance  of  first  giving 
them  voice.  In  a  few  weeks  *  My  Maryland ! '  had  found 
its  way  to  the  hearts  of  our  whole  people,  and  become  a 
great  national  song." 

15.  Henry  van  Dyke  (1852-  )  was  for  many  years  pro- 
fessor of  English  literature  at  Princeton.  He  was  recently  ap- 
pointed United  States  Minister  to  Holland.  He  writes  charm- 
ing poems,  essays,  and  short  stories  and  is,  perhaps,  as  frequently 
quoted  as  any  present-day  writer  because  of  his  genius  for  the 
happy  phrase. 

Salt 

(From  Salt.    Baccalaureate  Sermon,  Harvard   University,  Jime, 
1898.     "Ye  are  the  salt  of  the  earth."— Matthew  5  :  13) 

This  figure  of  speech  is  plain  and  pungent.  Salt  is 
savory,  purifying,  preservative.     It  is  one  of  those  super- 


Later  and  Present-Day  Writers  401 

fluities  which  the  great  French  wit  defined  as  "things 
that  are  very  necessary."  From  the  very  beginning  of 
human  history  men  have  set  a  high  value  upon  it  and  sought 
for  it  in  caves  and  by  the  seashore.  The  nation  that  had 
a  good  supply  of  it  was  counted  rich.  A  bag  of  salt, 
among  the  barbarous  tribes,  was  worth  more  than  a  man. 
The  Jews  prized  it  especially  because  they  Hved  in  a  warm 
climate  where  food  was  difficult  to  keep,  and  because  their 
religion  laid  particular  emphasis  on  cleanliness,  and  be- 
cause salt  was  largely  used  in  their  sacrifices. 


Now,  from  one  point  of  view,  it  was  an  immense  com- 
pliment for  the  disciples  to  be  spoken  to  in  this  way. 
Their  Master  showed  great  confidence  in  them.  He  set 
a  high  value  upon  them.  The  historian  Livy  could  find 
nothing  better  to  express  his  admiration  for  the  people 
of  ancient  Greece  than  this  very  phrase.  He  called  them 
sal  gentium,  "the  salt  of  the  nations." 

But  it  was  not  from  this  point  of  view  that  Christ  was 
speaking.  He  was  not  paying  compliments.  He  was 
giving  a  clear  and  powerful  call  to  duty.  His  thought 
was  not  that  His  disciples  should  congratulate  themselves 
on  being  better  than  other  men.  He  wished  them  to  ask 
themselves  whether  they  actually  had  in  them  the  purpose 
and  the  power  to  make  other  men  better.  Did  they  in- 
tend to  exercise  a  purifying,  seasoning,  saving  influence 
in  the  world  ?  Were  they  going  to  make  their  presence 
felt  on  earth  and  felt  for  good?  If  not,  they  would  be 
failures  and  frauds.  The  savor  would  be  out  of  them. 
They  would  be  like  lumps  of  rock  salt  which  has  lain  too 
long  in  a  damp  storehouse;  good  for  nothing  but  to  be 
thrown  away  and  trodden  under  foot;  worth  less  than 
common  rock  or  common  clay,  because  it  would  not  even 
make  good  roads. 

Men  of  privilege  without  power  are  waste  material. 
Men  of  enhghtenment  without  influence  are  the  poorest 
kind  of  rubbish.  Men  of  intellectual  and  moral  and  re- 
ligious culture,  who  are  not  active  forces  for  good  in  society, 


402  American  Literature 

are  not  worth  what  it  costs  to  produce  and  keep  them.  If 
they  pass  for  Christians  they  are  guilty  of  obtaining  re- 
spect under  false  pretenses.  They  were  meant  to  be  the 
salt  of  the  earth.     And  the  first  duty  of  salt  is  to  be  salty. 

This  is  the  subject  on  which  I  want  to  speak  to  you 
to-day.  The  saltiness  of  salt  is  the  symbol  of  a  noble, 
powerful,  truly  religious  life. 

You  college  students  are  men  of  privilege.  It  costs  ten 
times  as  much,  in  labor  and  care  and  money,  to  bring  you 
out  where  you  are  to-day  as  it  costs  the  average  man,  and 
a  hundred  times  as  much  as  it  costs  to  raise  a  boy  without 
any  education.  This  fact  brings  you  face  to  face  with  a 
question:  Are  you  going  to  be  worth  your  salt? 

You  have  had  mental  training  and  plenty  of  instruction 
in  various  branches  of  learning.  You  ought  to  be  full  of 
intelligence.  You  have  had  moral  discipline,  and  the  in- 
fluences of  good  example  have  been  steadily  brought  to 
bear  upon  you.  You  ought  to  be  full  of  principle.  You 
have  had  religious  advantages  and  abundant  inducements 
to  choose  the  better  part.  You  ought  to  be  full  of  faith. 
What  are  you  going  to  do  with  your  intelligence,  your 
principle,  your  faith?  It  is  your  duty  to  make  active  use 
of  them  for  the  seasoning,  the  cleansing,  the  saving  of  the 
world.     Do  not  be  sponges.    Be  the  salt  of  the  earth. 

I.  Think,  first,  of  the  influence  for  good  which  men  of 
intelligence  may  exercise  in  the  world  if  they  will  only 
put  their  culture  to  the  right  use.  Half  the  troubles  of 
mankind  come  from  ignorance — ignorance  which  is  sys- 
tematically organized  with  societies  for  its  support  and 
newspapers  for  its  dissemination — ignorance  which  con- 
sists less  in  not  knowing  things  than  in  willfully  ignoring 
the  things  that  are  already  known.  There  are  certain 
physical  diseases  which  would  go  out  of  existence  in  ten 
years  if  people  would  only  remember  what  has  been  learned. 
There  are  certain  political  and  social  plagues  which  are 
propagated  only  in  the  atmosphere  of  shallow  self-con- 
fidence and  vulgar  thoughtlessness.  There  is  a  yellow 
fever  of  literature  especially  adapted  and  prepared  for  the 
spread  of  shameless  curiosity,  incorrect  information,  and 


Later  and  Present-Day  Writers  403 

complacent  idiocy  among  all  classes  of  the  population. 
Persons  who  fall  under  the  influence  of  this  pest  become  so 
triumphantly  ignorant  that  they  cannot  distinguish  be- 
tween news  and  knowledge.  They  develop  a  morbid  thirst 
for  printed  matter,  and  the  more  they  read  the  less  they 
learn.  They  are  fit  soil  for  the  bacteria  of  folly  and  fa- 
naticism. 

Now  the  men  of  thought,  of  cultivation,  of  reason  in 
the  community  ought  to  be  an  antidote  to  these  dangerous 
influences.  Having  been  instructed  in  the  lessons  of  his- 
tory and  science  and  philosophy  they  are  bound  to  con- 
tribute their  knowledge  to  the  service  of  society.  As  a 
rule  they  are  willing  enough  to  do  this  for  pay,  in  the  pro- 
fessions of  law  and  medicine  and  teaching  and  divinity. 
What  I  plead  for  is  the  wider,  nobler,  unpaid  service  which 
an  educated  man  renders  to  society  simply  by  being  thought- 
ful and  by  helping  other  men  to  think. 


II.  Think,  in  the  second  place,  of  the  duty  which  men 
of  moral  principle  owe  to  society  in  regard  to  the  evils  which 
corrupt  and  degrade  it.  Of  the  existence  of  these  evils 
we  need  to  be  reminded  again  and  again,  just  because  we 
are  comparatively  clean  and  decent  and  upright  people. 
Men  who  live  an  orderly  life  are  in  great  danger  of  doing 
nothing  else.  We  wrap  our  virtue  up  in  httle  bags  of  re- 
spectability and  keep  it  in  the  storehouse  of  a  safe  reputa- 
tion. But  if  it  is  genuine  virtue  it  is  worthy  of  a  better 
use  than  that.  It  is  fit,  and  it  is  designed  and  demanded, 
to  be  used  as  salt,  for  the  purifying  of  human  life. 


What  the  world  needs  to-day  is  not  a  new  system  of 
ethics.  It  is  simply  a  larger  number  of  people  who  will 
make  a  steady  effort  to  live  up  to  the  system  that  they 
have  already.  There  is  plenty  of  room  for  heroism  in  the 
plainest  kind  of  duty.  The  greatest  of  all  wars  has  been 
going  on  for  centuries.  It  is  the  ceaseless,  glorious  con- 
flict against  the  evil  that  is  in  the  world.     Every  warrior 


404  Ajnerican  Literature 

who  will  enter  that  age-long  battle  may  find  a  place  in  the 
army,  and  win  his  spurs,  and  achieve  honor,  and  obtain 
favor  with  the  great  Captain  of  the  Host,  if  he  will  but  do 
his  best  to  make  his  Hfe  purer  and  finer  for  every  one  that 
lives. 

It  is  one  of  the  burning  questions  of  to-day  whether 
university  hfe  and  training  really  fit  men  for  taking  their 
share  in  this  supreme  conflict.  There  is  no  abstract  an- 
swer; but  every  college  class  that  graduates  is  a  part  of  the 
concrete  answer.  Therein  lies  your  responsibility,  Gentle- 
men. It  lies  with  you  to  illustrate  the  meanness  of  an 
education  which  produces  learned  shirks  and  refined 
skulkers;  or  to  illuminate  the  perfection  of  unselfish  cul- 
ture with  the  light  of  devotion  to  humanity.  It  Ues  with 
you  to  confess  that  you  have  not  been  strong  enough  to 
assimilate  your  privileges;  or  to  prove  that  you  are  able 
to  use  all  that  you  have  learned  for  the  end  for  which  it  was 
intended. 

III.  It  remains  only  to  speak  briefly,  in  the  third  place, 
of  the  part  which  religion  ought  to  play  in  the  purifying, 
preserving,  and  sweetening  of  society.  Hitherto  I  have 
spoken  to  you  simply  as  men  of  intelligence  and  men  of 
principle.  But  the  loftiest  reach  of  reason  and  the  strong- 
est inspiration  of  morality  is  religious  faith. 

I  believe  that  we  are  even  now  in  the  beginning  of  a 
renaissance  of  rehgion.  I  believe  that  there  is  a  rising 
tide  of  desire  to  find  the  true  meaning  of  Christ's  teaching, 
to  feel  the  true  power  of  Christ's  hfe,  to  interpret  the  true 
significance  of  Christ's  sacrifice  for  the  redemption  of 
mankind.  I  believe  that  never  before  were  there  so  many 
young  men  of  culture,  of  inteUigence,  of  character,  passion- 
ately in  earnest  to  find  the  way  of  making  their  religion 
speak,  not  in  word  only,  but  in  power.  I  call  you  to-day, 
my  brethren,  to  take  your  part,  not  with  the  idle,  the 
frivolous,  the  faithless,  the  selfish,  the  gilded  youth,  but 
with  the  earnest,  the  manly,  the  devout,  the  devoted,  the 


Later  and  Present- Day  Writers  405 

golden  youth.  I  summon  you  to  do  your  share  in  the 
renaissance  of  religion  for  your  own  sake,  for  your  fellow- 
men's  sake,  for  your  country's  sake. 

1 6.  Barrett  Wendell  (1855-  )  has  been  for  many  years 
professor  of  English  at  Harvard.  He  has  written  novels  and 
poems  and  has  made  noteworthy  contributions  to  the  field  of 
criticism.  His  Literary  History  oj  America  is  his  best-known 
work. 

The  American  Short  Story 

(From  A  Literary  History  of  America,  Book  VI,  Chapter  V) 

Though  newspapers  are  incalculably  the  most  popular 
vehicles  of  modern  American  expression,  there  are  other 
such  vehicles  generally  familiar  to  our  educated  classes. 
The  principal  of  these  are  the  illustrated  monthly  magazines 
published  in  New  York.  These,  which  circulate  by  hun- 
dreds of  thousands,  and  go  from  one  end  of  the  country 
to  the  other,  provide  the  ordinary  American  citizen  of 
to-day  with  his  nearest  approach  to  literature.  A  glance 
through  any  volume  of  any  of  them  will  show  that  the 
literary  form  which  most  luxuriantly  flourishes  in  their 
pages  is  the  short  story.  This  development  of  short  stories 
is  partly  a  question  of  business.  Short  stories  have  usually 
been  more  profitable  to  writers  and  more  convenient  to 
editors  than  long  novels;  and  at  this  moment  poetry  seems 
not  to  appeal  to  any  considerable  public  taste.  Partly, 
however,  this  prevalence  of  short  stories  seems  nationally 
characteristic  of  American  as  distinguished  from  English 
men  of  letters.  Of  late,  no  doubt,  England  has  produced 
one  or  two  writers  who  do  this  kind  of  work  extraordinarily 
well;  there  is  no  hving  American,  for  example,  whose 
stories  equal  those  of  Mr.  Kipling;  but  Mr.  Kipling,  a 
remarkable  master  of  this  difficult  literary  form,  is  a  com- 
paratively new  phenomenon  in  English  literature.  From 
the  days  of  Washington  Irving,  on  the  other  hand,  Ameri- 
cans have  shown  themselves  able  to  write  short  stories 
rather  better  than  anything  else.  The  older  short  stories 
of  America — Irving's  and  Poe's  and  even  Hawthorne's — 


406  American  Literature 

were  generally  romantic  in  both  impulse  and  manner. 
Accordingly,  however  local  their  sentiment  may  have  been, 
and  however  local  in  certain  cases  their  descriptive  pas- 
sages, they  were  not  precisely  documents  from  which  local 
conditions  might  be  inferred.  The  short  stories  of  modern 
Americans  differ  from  these  by  being  generally  reahstic  in 
impulse  and  local  in  detail.  We  have  stories  of  decaying 
New  England,  stories  of  the  Middle  West,  stories  of  the 
Ohio  region  and  Chicago  stories,  stories  of  the  Southwest, 
stories  of  the  Rocky  Mountains  and  of  CaHfornia,  of 
Virginia  and  of  Georgia.  In  plot  these  generally  seem 
conventionally  insignificant.  Their  characters,  too,  have 
hardly  reached  such  development  as  to  become  recognized 
national  types.  These  characters,  however,  are  often  typical 
of  the  regions  which  have  suggested  them;  and  the  de- 
scription of  these  regions  is  frequently  rendered  in  elab- 
orate detail  with  workmanlike  effectiveness.  On  the 
whole,  like  all  the  literature  of  the  moment,  in  England  and 
in  America  alike,  these  short  stories  lack  distinction.  The 
people  who  write  them,  one  is  apt  to  feel,  are  not  Olympian 
in  temper,  but  Bohemian.  Our  American  Bohemia,  how- 
ever, is  not  quite  Uke  that  of  the  old  world;  at  least  it  is 
free  from  the  kind  of  recklessness  which  one  so  often  asso- 
ciates with  such  regions;  and  the  writing  of  our  Bohemians 
preserves  something  of  that  artistic  conscience  which 
always  makes  the  form  of  careful  American  work  finer  than 
that  of  prevalent  work  in  the  old  country.  In  the  short 
stories  of  American  magazines,  then,  so  familiar  through- 
out the  United  States,  we  have  a  second  type  of  popular 
Uterature  not  at  present  developed  into  masterly  form, 
but  ready  to  afford  both  a  vehicle  and  a  public  to  any  writer 
of  masterly  power  who  may  arise. 

17..  Woodrow  Wilson  (1856-  ),  an  eminent  scholar  and 
writer  on  political  theory,  was  elected  President  of  the  United 
States  in  191 2.  He  is  a  graduate  of  Princeton  University, 
where  he  served  as  president  from  1902  until  19 10,  when  he 
resigned  to  become  Governor  of  New  Jersey.  His  book  The 
State  made  him  known  in  two  continents.  One  of  his  more 
recent  publications  is  Mere  Literature  and  Other  Essays. 


Later  and  Present- Day  Writers  407 


The  Declaration  of  Independence 

(From  President  Wilson's  Independence  Day  address  delivered  in 
Philadelphia,  July  4,  19 14) 

Mr.  Chairman  and  Fellow-Citizens — We  are  assembled 
to-day  to  celebrate  the  one-hundred-and-thirty-eighth  an- 
niversary of  the  birth  of  the  United  States.  I  suppose 
we  can  more  vividly  realize  the  circumstances  of  that 
birth,  standing  on  this  historic  spot,  than  it  would  be 
possible  to  realize  it  anywhere  else. 

The  Declaration  of  Independence  was  written  in  Phila- 
delphia. It  was  adopted  in  this  historic  building.  I  have 
just  had  the  privilege  of  sitting  in  the  chair  of  the  great 
man  who  presided  over  those  whose  deliberations  resulted 
in  its  adoption.  Here,  my  hand  rests  on  the  table  upon 
which  the  declaration  was  signed.  We  can  almost  feel  we 
are  in  the  visible  and  tangible  presence  of  a  great  historic 
transaction. 

But  have  you  ever  read  the  Declaration  of  Independence? 
When  you  have  heard  it  read,  have  you  attended  to  its 
sentences?  The  Declaration  of  Independence  is  not  a 
Fourth  of  July  oration.  The  Declaration  of  Independence 
was  a  document  preHminary  to  war.  It  involved  a  vital 
piece  of  business,  not  a  piece  of  rhetoric.  And  if  you  will 
get  further  down  in  the  reading  than  its  preliminary  pas- 
sages, where  it  quotes  about  the  rights  of  men,  you  will 
see  that  it  is  a  very  specific  body  of  declarations  concern- 
ing the  business  of  the  day,  not  the  business  of  our  day, 
for  the  matter  with  which  it  deals  is  past — the  business  of 
revolution,  the  business  of  1776.  The  Declaration  of  In- 
dependence does  not  mean  anything  to  us  merely  in  its 
general  statements,  unless  we  can  append  to  it  a  similarly 
specific  body  of  particulars  as  to  what  we  consider  our 
liberty  to  consist  of. 

Liberty  does  not  consist  in  mere  general  declarations  as 
to  the  rights  of  man.  It  consists  in  the  translation  of  those 
declarations  into  definite  action.  Therefore,  standing  here 
where  the  declaration  was  adopted,  reading  its  businesslike 


408  American  Literature 

sentences,  we  ought  to  ask  ourselves,  what  is  there  in  it 
for  us?  There  is  nothing  in  it  for  us  unless  we  can  trans- 
late it  into  terms  of  our  own  condition,  and  of  our  own 
lives.  We  must  reduce  it  to  what  the  lawyers  call  a  bill 
of  particulars.  It  contains  a  bill  of  particulars — the  bill 
of  particulars  of  1776 — and,  if  we  are  to  revitalize  it,  we 
are  to  fill  it  with  a  bill  of  particulars  of  19 14. 


Every  idea  has  got  to  be  started  by  somebody  and  it  is 
a  lonely  thing  to  start  anything.  Yet,  you  have  got  to 
start  it  if  there  is  any  man's  blood  in  you,  and  if  you  love 
the  country  that  you  are  pretending  to  work  for.  I  am 
sometimes  very  much  interested  in  seeing  gentlemen  sup- 
posing that  popularity  is  the  way  to  success  in  America. 
The  way  to  success  in  America  is  to  show  you  are  not  afraid 
of  anybody  except  God  and  his  judgment.  If  I  did  not 
believe  that,  I  would  not  believe  in  democracy.  If  I  did 
not  believe  that,  I  would  not  believe  people  could  govern 
themselves.  If  I  did  not  believe  that  the  moral  judgment 
would  be  the  last  and  final  judgment  in  the  minds  of  men 
as  well  as  the  tribunal  of  God,  I  could  not  believe  in  popular 
government.  But  I  do  believe  in  these  things  and  there- 
fore I  earnestly  believe  in  the  democracy,  not  only  of  Amer- 
ica, but  in  the  power  of  an  awakened  people  to  govern  and 
control  its  own  affairs.  So  it  is  very  inspiring  to  come  to 
this  that  may  be  called  the  original  fountain  of  liberty 
and  independence  in  America,  and  take  these  drafts  of 
patriotic  feelings  which  seem  to  renew  the  very  blood  in  a 
man's  veins. 

No  man  could  do  the  work  he  has  to  do  in  Washington 
if  he  allows  himself  to  feel  lonely.  He  has  to  make  himself 
feel  he  is  part  of  the  people  of  the  United  States,  and  then 
he  can  not  feel  lonely.  And  my  dream  is  this,  that  as  the 
years  go  on  and  the  world  knows  more  and  more  of  Amer- 
ica, it  also  will  bring  out  this  fountain  of  youth  and  re- 
newal, that  it  will  also  turn  to  America  for  those  moral 
inspirations  that  lie  at  the  base  of  human  freedom,  that 
it  will  never  fear  America  unless  it  finds  itself  engaged  in 


Later  and  Present-Day  Writers  409 

some  enterprise  inconsistent  with  the  right  of  humanity; 
that  America  will  come  to  that  day  when  all  shall  know 
she  puts  human  rights  above  all  other  rights  and  that  her. 
flag  is  the  flag,  not  only  of  America,  but  the  flag  of  human- 
ity. 

What  other  great  people,  I  ask,  has  devoted  itself  to 
this  exalted  ideal?  To  what  other  nation  in  the  world 
can  you  look  for  instant  sympathy  that  thrills  the  whole 
body  poUtic  when  men  anywhere  are  fighting  for  their 
rights  ? 

I  don't  know  that  there  ever  will  be  another  Declaration 
of  Independence,  a  statement  of  grievances  of  mankind; 
but  I  believe  if  any  such  document  is  ever  drawn,  it  will 
be  drawn  in  the  spirit  of  the  American  Declaration  of  In- 
dependence, and  that  America  has  lifted  the  light  that  will 
shine  unto  all  generations  and  guide  the  feet  of  mankind  to 
the  goal  of  justice,  Hberty,  and  peace. 

1 8.  Nicholas  Murray  Butler  (1862-  ),  one  of  America's 
foremost  educators,  is  president  of  Columbia  University.  As 
a  member  of  the  New  Jersey  State  Board  of  Education  he  intro- 
duced manual  training  into  the  schools  of  New  Jersey.  He 
founded  the  New  York  College  for  the  Training  of  Teachers, 
which  is  now  a  part  of  Columbia  University.  He  is  editor  of 
the  Edtccational  Review  and  has  written  many  articles  on 
educational  subjects,  some  of  which  have  been  collected  and 
published  in  a  volume  called  The  Meaning  of  Education.  A 
characteristic  extract  follows: 

Changes  of  the  Nineteenth  Century 

(From  "  Democracy  and  Education  "  in  The  Meaning  of  Education. 
An  address  delivered  before  the  National  Educational  Associa- 
tion at  Buffalo,  New  York,  July  7,  1896) 

.  .  .  The  material  advances  made  since  the  present  cen- 
tury opened  are  more  numerous  and  more  striking  than 
the  sum  total  of  those  that  all  previous  history  records. 
We  find  it  difficult  even  to  imagine  the  world  of  our  grand- 
fathers, and  almost  impossible  to  appreciate  or  understand 
it.     Without  the  factory,  without  the  manifold  products 


410  Ajnerican  Literature 

and  applications  of  steam  and  electricity,  without  even  the 
newspaper  and  the  sulphur  match,  the  details  of  our  daily 
life  would  be  strangely  different.  In  our  time  wholly 
new  mechanical  and  economic  forces  are  actively  at  work, 
and  have  already  changed  the  appearance  of  the  earth's 
surface.  What  another  hundred  years  may  bring  forth  no 
one  dares  to  predict. 

The  scientific  progress  of  the  century  is  no  less  mar- 
vellous and  no  less  revolutionary  in  its  effects  than  the 
material  advances.  .  .  .  The  geology  of  Lyell,  the  as- 
tronomy of  Herschel,  the  biology  of  von'Baer,  of  Darwin, 
and  of  Huxley,  the  physiology  of  Muller,  the  physics  of 
Helmholtz  and  of  Roentgen,  are  already  a  part  of  the  com- 
mon knowledge  of  educated  men.  To  us  the  world  and  its 
constitution  present  an  appearance  very  different  from  that 
which  was  famihar  to  our  ancestors. 

But  most  striking  and  impressive  of  all  movements  of 
the  century  is  the  poUtical  development  toward  the  form 
of  government  known  as  democracy.  Steadily  and  doggedly 
throughout  the  ten  decades  the  movement  toward  de- 
mocracy has  gone  its  conquering  way.  When  the  cen- 
tury opened  democracy  was  a  chimera.  It  had  been 
attempted  in  Greece  and  Rome  and  again  in  the  Middle 
Ages;  and  the  reflecting  portion  of  mankind  believed  it 
to  be  a  failure.  Whatever  its  possibilities  in  a  small  and 
homogeneous  community,  it  was  felt  to  be  wholly  inap- 
pHcable  to  large  states.  The  contention  that  government 
could  be  carried  on  by  what  Mill  called  collective  medi- 
ocrity rather  than  by  the  intelhgent  few,  was  felt  to  be 
preposterous.  The  horrible  spectre  of  the  French  Revolu- 
tion was  fresh  in  the  minds  of  men.  The  United  States, 
hardly  risen  from  their  cradle,  were  regarded  by  the  states- 
men of  Europe  with  a  curiosity,  partly  amused,  partly  dis- 
dainful. Germany  was  governed  by  an  absolute  mon- 
arch, the  grand-nephew  of  the  great  Frederick  himself. 
In  England  a  constitutional  oligarchy,  with  Pitt  at  its  head, 
was  firmly  intrenched  in  power.  The  Napoleonic  reaction 
was  in  full  swing  in  France.  How  different  will  be  the 
spectacle  when  the  twentieth  century  opens !     In  Great 


Later  and  Present- Day  Writers  411 

Britain  one  far-reaching  reform  after  another  has  left 
standing  only  the  shell  of  oligarchy;  the  spirit  and  support 
of  British  civilization  are  democratic.  Despite  the  influ- 
ence of  Bismarck  and  the  two  Williams,  great  progress  is 
being  made  toward  the  democratization  of  Germany. 
France,  after  a  period  of  unexampled  trouble  and  unrest, 
has  founded  a  successful  and  apparently  stable  republic. 
The  United  States  have  disappointed  every  foe  and  falsified 
the  predictions  of  every  hostile  critic.  The  governmental 
framework  constructed  by  the  fathers  for  less  than  four 
millions  of  people,  scattered  along  a  narrow  strip  of  sea- 
board, has  expanded  easily  to  meet  the  needs  of  a  diverse 
population  twenty  times  as  large,  gathered  into  great  cities 
and  distributed  over  an  empire  of  seacoast,  mountain,  plain, 
and  forest.  It  has  withstood  the  shock  of  the  greatest  civil 
war  of  all  time,  fought  by  men  of  high  intelligence  and  de- 
termined convictions.  It  has  permitted  the  development 
and  expansion  of  a  civiKzation  in  which  there  is  equality 
of  opportunity  for  all,  and  where  the  highest  civil  and  mili- 
tary honors  have  been  thrust  upon  the  children  of  the  plain 
people  by  their  grateful  fellow-citizens.  .  .  . 

19.  Edward  Alsworth  Ross  (1866-  ),  professor  of  so- 
ciology at  the  University  of  Wisconsin,  is  one  of  the  most  bril- 
liant of  the  younger  university  writers.  His  literary  style  is 
picturesque,  original,  and  compelling,  and  he  has  undoubtedly 
a  "gift  of  the  right  word."  His  writings  are  stimulating  and 
should  be  enjoyed  by  the  young .  reader.  Besides  magazine 
articles,  he  has  written  Social  Control,  Sin  and  Society,  The 
Changing  Chinese,  and  Changing  America. 

China  to  the  Ranging  Eye 

(From  The  Changing  Chinese,  Chapter  I) 

China  is  the  European  Middle  Ages  made  visible.  All 
the  cities  are  walled  and  the  walls  and  gates  have  been  kept 
in  repair  with  an  eye  to  their  effectiveness.  The  mandarin 
has  his  headquarters  only  in  a  walled  fortress-city  and  to 
its  shelter  he  retires  when  a  sudden  tempest  of  rebellion 
vexes  the  peace  of  his  district.  .  .  . 


412  American  Literature 

No  memory  of  China  is  more  haunting  than  that  of  the 
everlasting  blue  cotton  garments.  The  common  people 
wear  coarse  deep-blue  ''nankeen."  The  gala  dress  is  a 
cotton  gown  of  a  delicate  bird's-egg  blue  or  a  silk  jacket 
of  rich  hue.  In  cold  weather  the  poor  wear  quilted  cotton, 
while  the  well-to-do  keep  themselves  warm  with  fur-lined 
garments  of  silk.  A  general  adoption  of  Western  dress 
would  bring  on  an  economic  crisis,  for  the  Chinese  are  not 
ready  to  rear  sheep  on  a  great  scale  and  it  will  be  long  be- 
fore they  can  supply  themselves  with  wool.  The  Chinese 
jacket  is  fortunate  in  opening  at  the  side  instead  of  at  the 
front.  When  the  winter  winds  of  Peking  gnaw  at  you  with 
Siberian  teeth,  you  realize  how  stupid  is  our  Western  way 
of  cutting  a  notch  right  down  through  overcoat,  coat,  and 
vest,  apparently  in  order  that  the  cold  may  do  its  worst 
to  the  tender  throat  and  chest.  On  seeing  the  sensible 
Chinaman  bring  his  coat  squarely  across  his  front  and 
fasten  it  on  his  shoulder,  you  feel  like  an  exposed  totem- 
worshiper. 

Wherever  stone  is  to  be  had,  along  or  spanning  the 
main  roads  are  to  be  seen  the  memorial  arches  known  as 
pailows,  erected  by  imperial  permission  to  commemorate 
some  deed  or  life  of  extraordinary  merit.  It  is  significant 
that  when  they  proclaim  achievement,  it  is  that  of  the 
scholar,  not  that  of  the  warrior.  They  enclose  a  central 
gateway  flanked  by  two  and  sometimes  by  four  smaller 
gateways  and  conform  closely  to  a  few  standard  types, 
all  of  real  beauty.  ..." 

In  South-China  cities  a  tall  moat-girt  building,  six  or 
seven  stories  high,  flat-topped  and  with  small  window^s 
high  up,  towers  over  the  mean  houses  like  a  mediaeval 
donjon  keep.  It  is  the  pawnshop,  which  also  serves  the 
public  as  bank  and  safety  deposit  vault  for  the  reason  that 
it  can  for  some  hours  bid  defiance  to  any  robber  attack. 
In  the  larger  centers  sumptuous  guild-halls  are  to  be 
seen.  .  .  . 

In  the  absence  of  good  roads  and  draft  animals  the  ut- 
most use  has  been  made  of  the  countless  waterways  and 
there  are  probably  as  many  boats  in  China  as  in  all  the 


Later  and  Present- Day  Writers  4 IS 

rest  of  the  world.  Nowhere  else  are  there  such  clever 
river-people,  nowhere  else  is  there  so  lavish  an  application 
of  man-muscle  to  water  movement.  The  rivers  are  aHve 
with  junks  propelled  by  rowers  who  occupy  the  forward 
deck  and  stand  as  they  ply  the  oar.  Sixteen  or  eighteen 
rowers  man  the  bigger  boats  and  as,  bare  to  the  waist, 
they  forge  by  in  rhythmic  swing,  chanting  their  song  of 
labor,  the  effect  is  fine.  Save  when  there  is  a  stiff  breeze 
to  sail  with,  the  up-river  junks  are  towed  along  the  bank, 
and,  as  no  tow-path  has  ever  been  built,  the  waste  of  toil 
in  scrambling  along  slippery  banks,  clambering  over  rocks^ 
or  creeping  along  narrow  ledges  with  the  tow-rope  is  dis- 
tressing to  behold. 

In  the  South,  population  is  forced  from  the  land  onto 
the  water  and  myriads  pass  their  lives  in  sampans  and 
house-boats.  In  good  weather  these  poor  families,  living 
as  it  were  in  a  single  small  room  with  a  porch  at  either 
end,  seem  as  happy  as  people  anywhere.  There  is  no 
landlord  to  threaten  eviction,  no  employer  to  grind  them 
down,  no  foreman  to  speed  them  up.  There  is  infinite 
variety  in  the  stirring  life  of  river  and  foreshore  that  passes 
under  their  eyes;  the  babble  and  chatter  never  cease  and 
no  one  need  ever  feel  lonely.  The  tiny  home  can  be  kept 
with  a  Dutch  cleanliness  for  water  is  always  to  be  had 
with  a  sweep  of  the  arm.  They  pay  no  rent  and  can 
change  neighbors,  residence,  scenery  or  occupation  when 
they  please.  No  people  is  more  natural,  animated,  and 
self-expressive,  for  they  have  simplified  life  without  im- 
poverishing it  and  have  remained  free  even  under  the  very 
harrow-tooth  of  poverty. 

Their  children,  little  river  Arabs,  have  their  wits  sharp- 
ened early  and  not  for  long  is  the  baby  tied  to  a  sealed 
empty  jar  that  by  floating  will  mark  his  location  in  case 
he  tumbles  into  the  water.  The  year-old  child  knows  how 
to  take  care  of  himself.  The  tot  of  three  or  four  can 
handle  the  oar  or  the  pole  and  is  as  sharp  as  our  boys  of 
six  or  seven.  .  .  . 

Although  the  gates  of  the  Chinese  city  close  at  night, 
the  city  is  by  no  means  so  cut  off  from  the  open  country 


414  American  Literature 

as  with  us.  The  man  in  the  street  never  quite  lets  go  of 
his  kinsfolk  in  the  rural  village.  When,  a  little  while  ago, 
shipbuilding  and  repairing  became  dull  in  Hong  Kong, 
there  was  no  hanging  of  the  unemployed  about  the  wharves, 
not  because  they  had  found  other  jobs,  but  because  most 
of  them  had  dispersed  to  their  ancestral  seats  in  the  coun- 
try, there  to  work  on  the  old  place  till  times  improved. 
The  man's  family  always  give  him  a  chance  and  there  is 
rice  in  the  pot  for  him  and  his.  Nor  is  this  tie  with  the 
mother-stem  allowed  to  decay  with  the  lapse  of  time.  The 
successful  merchant  registers  his  male  children  in  the 
ancestral  temple  of  his  clan,  contributes  to  its  upkeep  and 
is  entitled  to  his  portion  of  roast-pork  on  the  occasion  of 
the  yearly  clan  festival,  visits  the  old  home  during  the 
holidays,  sends  money  back  so  that  his  people  may  buy 
more  land,  takes  his  children  out  so  they  will  get  acquainted 
and  perhaps  lets  them  pass  their  boyhood  in  the  ancestral 
village  so  that,  after  he  is  gone,  they  will  love  and  cherish 
the  old  tie  to  the  soil. 

BIBLIOGRAPHY 

For  Further  Illustration 

Burroughs,  John:  Birds  and  Poets. 

Time  and  Change. 
Mabie,  H.  W. :  Essays  on  Nature  and  Cttlture. 

Books  and  Culture. 
Repplier,  A.:  ^  Plea  for  Humor.     (In  Points  of  View.) 

The  Fireside  Sphinx. 
Roosevelt,  T.:  A  Nation  of  Pioneers.     (In  Library  of  Oratory,  vol. 

14.) 

Life  in  the  Wilderness.     (From  The  Winning  of  the  West,  vol. 
I,  chapter  V.) 
Ross,  E.  A.:  The  Changing  Chinese. 

Changing  America. 
Van  Dyke,  H. :  The  Unknown  Quantity. 

Days  Off. 

The  Ruling  Passion. 
Wilson,  W. :  Mere  Literature  and  Other  Essays. 


Later  and  Present- Day  Writers  415 

///.     Poetry 

1.  Edmund  Clarence  Stedman  (1833-1908)  was  born  in 
Hartford,  Connecticut,  and  was  intimately  associated  with 
Stoddard,  Taylor,  and  Aldrich  in  literary  work  in  New  York 
before  the  Civil  War.  After  the  war  he  became  a  banker  and  has 
since  been  known  in  the  literary  world  as  the  "  banker  poet." 
His  verses  all  show  the  touch  of  the  literary  artist.  He  ren- 
dered a  great  service  to  the  student  of  Uterature  through  his 
Victorian  Anthology,  published  in  1895,  and  his  American 
Anthology,  published  in  1900.  (For  readings  see  Bibliography, 
page  441.) 

2.  Richard  Watson  Gilder  (1844- 1909)  is  one  of  the  fore- 
most American  poets  of  this  generation.  He  was  born  in  New 
Jersey  and  early  achieved  a  reputation  in  the  literary  world 
of  New  York  City.  For  a  long  time  he  was  editor  of  Scribner's 
Monthly,  and  later  of  the  Century  Magazine.  His  verses  are 
poUshed  and  beautiful. 

The  Sonnet 

What  is  a  sonnet  ?     'Tis  the  pearly  shell 

That  murmurs  of  the  far-off  murmuring  sea; 

A  precious  jewel  carved  most  curiously; 

It  is  a  little  picture  painted  well. 

What  is  a  sonnet  ?     'Tis  the  tear  that  fell 

From  a  great  poet's  hidden  ecstasy; 

A  two-edged  sword,  a  star,  a  song, — ah  me ! 

Sometimes  a  heavy-tolling  funeral  bell. 

This  was  the  flame  that  shook  with  Dante's  breath, 

The  solemn  organ  whereon  Milton  played 

And  the  clear  glass  where  Shakespeare's  shadow  falls: 

A  sea  this  is, — beware  who  ventureth  ! 

For  like  a  fiord  the  narrow  floor  is  laid 

Mid-ocean  deep  to  the  sheer  mountain  walls. 

Compare  with  the  above:  Wordsworth's  Scorn  Not  the 
Sonnet  and  Nuns  Fret  Not;  Symonds's  The  Sonnet ;  Rosset- 
ti's  "A  Sonnet  is  a  Moment's  Monument,"  from  The  House 
of  Life:  a  Sonnet  Sequence;  Watts's  The  Sonnet^ s  Voice. 


416  American  Literature 

3.  Joaquin  Miller  (1841-1913)  was  one  of  the  most  pic 
turesque  figures  in  American  literature.  For  many  years  he 
lived  alone  in  the  mountains  near  Oakland,  California.  He  is 
known  as  the  "poet  of  the  Sierras." 

By  the  Pacific  Ocean 

Here  room  and  kingly  silence  keep 
Companionship  in  state  austere; 
The  dignity  of  death  is  here, 
The  large,  lone  vastness  of  the  deep; 
Here  toil  has  pitched  his  camp  to  rest; 
The  west  is  banked  against  the  west. 

Above  yon  gleaming  skies  of  gold 
One  lone  imperial  peak  is  seen ; 
While  gathered  at  his  feet  in  green 
Ten  thousand  foresters  are  told: 
And  all  so  still !  so  still  the  air 
That  duty  drops  the  web  of  care. 

Beneath  the  sunset's  golden  sheaves 
The  awful  deep  walks  with  the  deep, 
Where  silent  sea  doves  slip  and  sweep, 
And  commerce  keeps  her  loom  and  weaves. 
The  dead  red  men  refuse  to  rest; 
Their  ghosts  illume  my  lurid  West. 

Dead  in  the  Sierras 

His  footprints  have  failed  us, 
Where  berries  are  red. 
And  madroiios  are  rankest, — 
The  hunter  is  dead ! 

The  grizzly  may  pass 
By  his  half-open  door; 
May  pass  and  repass 
On  his  path,  as  of  yore; 


Later  and  Present-Day  Writers  417 

The  panther  may  crouch 
In  the  leaves  on  his  limb; 
May  scream  and  may  scream, — 
It  is  nothing  to  him. 

Prone,  bearded,  and  breasted 
Like  columns  of  stone; 
And  tall  as  a  pine — 
As  a  pine  overthrown. 

His  camp-fires  are  gone, 
What  else  can  be  done 
Than  let  him  sleep  on 
Till  the  light  of  the  sun? 

Ay,  tombless!  what  of  it? 
Marble  is  dust. 
Cold  and  repellent; 
And  iron  is  rust. 

4.  Will  Carleton  (1845-1912)  was  a  well-known  journalist 
of  Brooklyn,  New  York.  He  wrote  many  humorous  and 
pathetic  poems.  (See  Bibliography,  page  440,  for  suggested 
readings.) 

5.  Eugene  Field  (i 850-1 895)  was  a  Chicago  journalist. 
His  verses  of  child  life  are  among  the  most  charming  in  our  lan- 
guage.   He  has  been  called  the  Poet  Laureate  of  Children. 

Little  Boy  Blue 

The  little  toy  dog  is  covered  with  dust. 

But  sturdy  and  stanch  he  stands; 
And  the  Httle  toy  soldier  is  red  with  rust. 

And  his  musket  moulds  in  his  hands. 
Time  was  when  the  little  toy  dog  was  new, 

And  the  soldier  was  passing  fair; 
And  that  was  the  time  when  our  Little  Boy  Blue 

Kissed  them  and  put  them  there. 


418  American  Literature 

"Now,  don't  you  go  till  I  come,"  he  said, 

"And  don't  you  make  any  noise !" 
So,  toddling  ofif  to  his  trundle-bed, 

He  dreamt  of  his  pretty  toys; 
And,  as  he  was  dreaming,  an  angel  song 

Awakened  our  Little  Boy  Blue — 
Oh  !  the  years  are  many,  the  years  are  long, 

But  the  little  toy  friends  are  true ! 

Ay,  faithful  to  Little  Boy  Blue  they  stand, 

Each  in  the  same  old  place. 
Awaiting  the  touch  of  a  little  hand, 

The  smile  of  a  Kttle  face; 
And  they  wonder,  as  waiting  the  long  years  through 

In  the  dust  of  that  Uttle  chair. 
What  has  become  of  our  Little  Boy  Blue, 

Since  he  kissed  them  and  put  them  there. 

Wynken,  Blynken,  and  Nod 

Wynken,  Blynken,  and  Nod  one  night 

Sailed  off  in  a  wooden  shoe, — 
Sailed  on  a  river  of  crystal  hght 

Into  a  sea  of  dew. 
"Where  are  you  going,  and  what  do  you  wish?" 

The  old  moon  asked  the  three. 
"We  have  come  to  fish  for  the  herring-fish 
That  five  in  this  beautiful  sea; 
Nets  of  silver  and  gold  have  we," 
Said  Wynken, 
Blynken, 
And  Nod. 

The  old  moon  laughed  and  sang  a  song. 
As  they  rocked  in  the  wooden  shoe; 

And  the  wind  that  sped  them  all  night  long 
Ruffled  the  waves  of  dew; 

The  Httle  stars  were  the  herring-fish 
That  Hved  in  the  beautiful  sea. 


Later  and  Present- Day  Writers  419 

'Now  cast  your  nets  wherever  you  wish, — 
Never  afeard  are  we!" 
So  cried  the  stars  to  the  fishermen  three, 

Wynken, 

Blynken, 

And  Nod. 


All  night  long  their  nets  they  threw 

To  the  stars  in  the  twinkling  foam, — 
Then  down  from  the  skies  came  the  wooden  shoe, 

Bringing  the  fishermen  home: 
'Twas  all  so  pretty  a  sail,  it  seemed 

As  if  it  could  not  be; 
And  some  folk  thought  'twas  a  dream  they'd  dreamed 
Of  sailing  that  beautiful  sea; 
But  I  shall  name  you  the  fishermen  three: 
Wynken, 
Blynken, 
And  Nod. 

Wynken  and  Blynken  are  two  little  eyes. 

And  Nod  is  a  little  head, 
And  the  wooden  shoe  that  sailed  the  skies 

Is  a  wee  one's  trundle-bed; 
So  shut  your  eyes  while  Mother  sings 

Of  wonderful  sights  that  be, 
And  you  shall  see  the  beautiful  things 
As  you  rock  on  the  misty  sea 
Where  the  old  shoe  rocked  the  fishermen  three, — 
Wynken, 
Blynken, 
And  Nod. 


6.  Edwin  Markham  (1852-  ),  now  engaged  in  editorial 
work  in  New  York  City,  was  born  in  Oregon  and  spent  his 
early  life  as  a  teacher  in  California,  where  he  wrote  his  poem 
The  Man  with  the  Hoe.  This  is  considered  one  of  the  great 
songs  of  labor. 


420  American  Literature 

The  Man  with  the  Hoe 

(Written  after  seeing  the  painting  by  Millet) 

God  made  man  in  His  own  image,  in  the  image  of  God  made  He 
him. — Genesis. 

Bowed  by  the  weight  of  centuries  he  leans 

Upon  his  hoe  and  gazes  on  the  ground, 

The  emptiness  of  ages  in  his  face, 

And  on  his  back  the  burden  of  the  world. 

Who  made  him  dead  to  rapture  and  despair, 

A  thing  that  grieves  not  and  that  never  hopes, 

Stolid  and  stunned,  a  brother  to  the  ox  ? 

Who  loosened  and  let  down  this  brutal  jaw  ? 

Whose  was  the  hand  that  slanted  back  this  brow? 

Whose  breath  blew  out  the  Hght  within  this  brain  ? 

Is  this  the  Thing  the  Lord  God  made  and  gave 

To  have  dominion  over  sea  and  land; 

To  trace  the  stars  and  search  the  heavens  for  power; 

To  feel  the  passion  of  Eternity  ? 

Is  this  the  Dream  He  dreamed  who  shaped  the  suns 

And  pillared  the  blue  firmament  with  hght  ? 

Down  all  the  stretch  of  Hell  to  its  last  gulf 

There  is  no  shape  more  terrible  than  this — 

More  tongued  with  censure  of  the  world's  blind  greed — 

More  filled  with  signs  and  portents  for  the  soul — 

More  fraught  with  menace  to  the  universe. 

What  gulfs  between  him  and  the  seraphim ! 
Slave  of  the  wheel  of  labor,  what  to  him 
Are  Plato  and  the  swing  of  Pleiades  ? 
What  the  long  reaches  of  the  peaks  of  song, 
The  rift  of  dawn,  the  reddening  of  the  rose? 
Through  this  dread  shape  the  suffering  ages  look; 
Time's  tragedy  is  in  that  aching  stoop; 
Through  this  dread  shape  humanity  betrayed, 
Plundered,  profaned,  and  disinherited. 
Cries  protest  to  the  Judges  of  the  World, 
A  protest  that  is  also  prophecy. 


Later  and  Present- Day  Writers  421 

O  masters,  lords,  and  rulers  in  all  lands, 

Is  this  the  handiwork  you  give  to  God, 

This  monstrous  thing  distorted  and  soul-quenched? 

How  will  you  ever  straighten  up  this  shape; 

Touch  it  again  with  immortahty; 

Give  back  the  upward  looking  and  the  light; 

Rebuild  in  it  the  music  and  the  dream; 

Make  right  the  immemorial  infamies. 

Perfidious  wrongs,  immedicable  woes  ? 

O  masters,  lords,  and  rulers  in  all  lands, 
How  will  the  Future  reckon  with  this  Man  ? 
How  answer  his  brute  question  in  that  hour 
When  whirlwinds  of  rebellion  shake  the  world  ? 
How  will  it  be  with  kingdoms  and  with  kings — 
With  those  who  shaped  him  to  the  thing  he  is — 
When  this  dumb  Terror  shall  reply  to  God, 
After  the  silence  of  the  centuries? 

Read  John  Vance  Cheney's  The  Man  with  the  Hoe.  A 
Reply. 

7.  James  Whitcomb  Riley  (1853-  ),  a  journalist  living 
in  Indianapolis,  is  popularly  known  as  "the  Hoosier  Poet." 
His  verses  in  the  dialect  of  the  Indiana  farmer  are  widely  read 
and  loved.     He  is  pre-eminently  the  poet  of  the  common  people. 

The  Old  Man  and  JimV 

Old  man  never  had  much  to  say — 

'Ceptin'  to  Jim, — 
And  Jim  was  the  wildest  boy  he  had, 

And  the  old  man  jes'  wrapped  up  in  him ! 
Never  heerd  him  speak  but  once 
Er  twice  in  my  life, — and  first  time  was 
When  the  army  broke  out,  and  Jim  he  went, 
The  old  man  backin'  him  fer  three  months; 
And  all  'at  I  heerd  the  old  man  say 
Was,  jes'  as  we  turned  to  start  away, — 

*  From  Poems  Here  at  Home,  by  James  Whitcomb  Riley,  copyright  1903. 
Used  by  special  permission  of  the  publishers,  The  Bobbs-Merrill  Company. 


422  American  Literature 

"Well,  good-by,  Jim: 
Take  keer  of  yourself ! " 

'Peared  like  he  was  more  satisfied 

Jes'  lookifi'  at  Jim 
And  likin'  him  all  to  hisse'f-like,  see? 

'Cause  he  was  jes'  wrapped  up  in  him ! 
And  over  and  over  I  mind  the  day 
The  old  man  come  and  stood  round  in  the  way 
While  we  was  drillin',  a-watchin'  Jim; 
And  down  at  the  deepot  a-heerin'  him  say, — 

*'Well,  good-by,  Jim: 

Take  keer  of  yourse'f !  '* 

Never  was  nothin'  about  the  farm 

Disting'ished  Jim; 
Neighbors  all  ust  to  wonder  why 

The  old  man  'peared  wrapped  up  in  him: 
But  when  Cap.  Biggler,  he  writ  back 
'At  Jim  was  the  bravest  boy  we  had 
In  the  whole  dern  rigiment,  white  er  black, 
And  his  fightin'  good  as  his  farmin'  bad, — 
'At  he  had  led,  with  a  bullet  clean 
Bored  through  his  thigh,  and  carried  the  flag 
Through  the  bloodiest  battle  you  ever  seen, — 
The  old  man  wound  up  a  letter  to  him 
'At,  Cap.  read  to  us,  'at  said, — ''Tell  Jim 

Good-by; 

And  take  keer  of  hisse'f ! " 

Jim  come  home  jes'  long  enough 

To  take  the  whim 
'At  he'd  hke  to  go  back  in  the  calvery — 

And  the  old  man  jes'  wrapped  up  in  him ! 
Jim  'lowed  'at  he'd  had  sich  luck  afore, 
Guessed  he'd  tackle  her  three  years  more. 
And  the  old  man  give  him  a  colt  he'd  raised, 
And  follered  him  over  to  Camp  Ben  Wade, 
And  laid  around  f er  a  week  er  so, 


Later  and  Present-Day  Writers  423 

Watchin'  Jim  on  dress-parade; 

'Tel  finally  he  rid  away, 

And  last  he  heerd  was  the  old  man  say, — 

^'Well,  good-by,  Jim: 

Take  keer  of  yourse'f ! " 

Tuk  the  papers,  the  old  man  did, 

A-watchin'  fer  Jim, 
Fully  beHevin'  he'd  make  his  mark 

Some  way — jes'  wrapped  up  in  him ! 
And  many  a  time  the  word  'ud  come 
'At  stirred  him  up  Hke  the  tap  of  a  drum: 
At  Petersburg,  fer  instunce,  where 
Jim  rid  right  into  their  cannons  there, 
And  tuk  'em,  and  p'inted  'em  t'other  way, 
And  socked  it  home  to  the  boys  in  gray, 
As  they  skooted  fer  timber,  and  on  and  on — 
Jim  a  lieutenant, — and  one  arm  gone, — 
And  the  old  man's  words  in  his  mind  all  day, — 

"Well,  good-by,  Jim: 

Take  keer  of  yourse'f ! " 

Think  of  a  private,  now,  perhaps, 

We'll  say  Hke  Jim, 
'At's  dumb  clean  up  to  the  shoulder-straps — 

And  the  old  man  jes'  wrapped  up  in  him ! 
Think  of  him — ^with  the  war  plum'  through, 
'  And  the  glorious  old  Red-White-and-Blue 
A-laughin'  the  news  down  over  Jim, 
And  the  old  man,  bendin'  over  him — 
The  surgeon  turnin'  away  with  tears 
'At  hadn't  leaked  fer  years  and  years. 
As  the  hand  of  the  dyin'  boy  clung  to 
His  Father's,  the  old  voice  in  his  ears, — 

"Well,  good-by,  Jim: 

Take  keer  of  yourse'f !" 

8.     Samuel  Minturn  Peck  (1854-        )  is  an  Alabamalman 
of  letters.    His  poems  are  very  popular. 


424  American  Literature 


A  Southern  Girl 

Her  dimpled  cheeks  are  pale; 
She's  a  lily  of  the  vale, 

Not  a  rose. 
In  a  muslin  or  a  lawn 
She  is  fairer  than  the  dawn 

To  her  beaux. 

Her  boots  are  slim  and  neat, — 
She  is  vain  about  her  feet. 

It  is  said. 
She  amputates  her  r's, 
But  her  eyes  are  like  the  stars 

Overhead. 

On  a  balcony  at  night, 
With  a  fleecy  cloud  of  white 

Round  her  hair — 
Her  grace,  ah,  who  could  paint? 
She  would  fascinate  a  saint, 

I  declare. 

'Tis  a  matter  of  regret, 
She's  a  bit  of  a  coquette. 

Whom  I  sing: 
On  her  cruel  path  she  goes 
With  a  half  a  dozen  beaux 

To  her  string. 

But  let  all  that  pass  by. 
As  her  maiden  moments  fly, 

Dew-empearled; 
When  she  marries,  on  my  life. 
She  will  make  the  dearest  wife 

In  the  world. 


Later  and  Present-Day  Writers  4i^5 


My  Little  Girl 

My  little  girl  is  nested 

Within  her  tiny  bed, 
With  amber  ringlets  crested 

Around  her  dainty  head; 
She  lies  so  calm  and  stilly, 

She  breathes  so  soft  and  low, 
She  calls  to  mind  a  Hly 

Half-hidden  in  the  snow. 

A  weary  little  mortal 

Has  gone  to  slumberland; 
The  Pixies  at  the  portal 

Have  caught  her  by  the  hand. 
She  dreams  her  broken  dolly 

Will  soon  be  mended  there, 
That  looks  so  melancholy 

Upon  the  rocking-chair. 

I  kiss  your  wayward  tresses. 

My  drowsy  little  queen; 
I  know  you  have  caresses 

From  floating  forms  unseen. 
O,  Angels,  let  me  keep  her 

To  kiss  away  my  cares, 
This  darling  httle  sleeper, 

Who  has  my  love  and  prayers. 

9.  Edith  Thomas  (1854-  )  is  a  writer  of  note,  living  in 
New  York  City.  Stedman  says:  "Her  place  is  secure  among 
the  truest  living  poets  of  our  English  tongue." 

Mother  England 
I 

There  was  a  rover  from  a  western  shore, 
England !  whose  eyes  the  sudden  tears  did  drown, 
Beholding  the  white  cHff  and  sunny  down 


426  American  Literature 

Of  thy  good  realm,  beyond  the  sea's  uproar. 
I,  for  a  moment,  dreamed  that,  long  before, 
I  had  beheld  them  thus,  when,  with  the  frown 
Of  sovereignty,  the  victor's  palm  and  crown 
Thou  from  the  tilting-field  of  nations  bore. 
Thy  prowess  and  thy  glory  dazzled  first; 
But  when  in  fields  I  saw  the  tender  flame 
Of  primroses,  and  full-fleeced  lambs  at  play, 
Meseemed  I  at  thy  breast,  like  these,  was  nursed; 
Then  mother — Mother  England  !  home  I  came, 
Like  one  who  hath  been  all  too  long  away ! 

n 

As  nestling  at  thy  feet  in  peace  I  lay, 
A  thought  awoke  and  restless  stirred  in  me: 
"  My  land  and  congeners  are  beyond  the  sea, 
Theirs  is  the  morning  and  the  evening  day, 
Wilt  thou  give  ear  while  this  of  them  I  say: 
*  Haughty  art  thou,  and  they  are  bold  and  free. 
As  well  befits  who  have  descent  from  thee. 
And  who  have  trodden  brave  the  forlorn  way. 
Children  of  thine,  but  grown  to  strong  estate; 
Nor  scorn  from  thee  would  they  be  slow  to  pay, 
Nor  check  from  thee  submissly  would  they  bear; 
Yet,  Mother  England!  yet  their  hearts  are  great. 
And  if  for  thee  should  dawn  some  darkest  day 
At  cry  of  thine  how  proudly  would  they  dare!'" 

Doubt 

There  may  be  canker  at  the  rose's  core. 
An  arrow  through  the  summer  darkness  flying — 
A  poisoned  breath  in  the  green  leaves'  low  sighing, 
And  bane  from  Trebizond  our  bees  may  store; 
And  thou,  whose  face  makes  sunshine  at  my  door — 
How  know  I  but  those  sweetest  lips  be  lying, 
And  in  their  perjuries  thine  eyes  complying, 
What  time  they  say,  ''Trust  us  f orevermore ? " 


Later  and  Present-Day  Writers  ^'ill 

But  no  !  beneath  what  seems  I'll  not  be  prying, 

Not  though  the  rose  have  canker  at  its  core — 

My  love,  not  though  thy  sweetest  lips  be  lying ! 

To  doubt,  were  to  receive  some  wounding  score 

Each  hour — each  day  and  morrow  to  be  dying; 

To  Death  I  yield,  but  not  to  Doubt,  who  slays  before ! 

lo.  Henry  Cuyler  Bunner  (1855-1896)  was  for  a  long  time 
editor  of  Puck.  His  poems  are  full  of  wit  and  humor,  and  his 
short  stories  are  clever  reflections  of  real  life. 


The  Way  to  Arcady 

Oh,  whafs  the  way  to  Arcady ^ 

To  Arcady^  to  Arcady ; 
Oh.  whafs  the  way  to  Arcady, 

Where  all  the  leaves  are  merry  ? 

Oh,  what's  the  way  to  Arcady? 
The  spring  is  rustling  in  the  tree, — 
The  tree  the  wind  is  blowing  through, — 

It  sets  the  blossoms  flickering  white. 
I  knew  not  skies  could  burn  so  blue 

Nor  any  breezes  blow  so  Hght. 
They  blow  an  old-time  way  for  me. 
Across  the  world  to  Arcady. 

Oh,  what's  the  way  to  Arcady? 
Sir  Poet,  with  the  rusty  coat, 
Quit  mocking  of  the  song-bird's  note. 
How  have  you  heart  for  any  tune. 
You  with  the  wayworn  russet  shoon  ? 
Your  scrip,  a-s winging  by  your  side, 
Gapes  with  a  gaunt  mouth  hungry-wide. 
I'll  brim  it  well  with  pieces  red. 
If  you  will  tell  the  way  to  tread. 

Oh,  I  am  hound  for  Arcady, 
And  if  you  hut  keep  pace  with  we 
You  tread  the  way  to  Arcady. 


428  American  Literature 

And  where  away  lies  Arcady, 

And  how  long  yet  may  the  journey  be? 

Ah,  that  (quoth  he)  /  do  not  know: 
Across  the  clover  and  the  snow — 
Across  the  frost,  across  the  flowers — 
Through  summer  seconds  and  winter  hours, 
Fve  trod  the  way  my  whole  life  long, 

And  know  not  now  where  it  may  he; 
My  guide  is  hut  the  stir  to  song, 
That  tells  me  I  cannot  go  wrong. 

Or  clear  or  dark  the  pathway  he 

Upon  the  road  to  Arcady. 

But  how  shall  I  do  who  cannot  sing? 

I  was  wont  to  sing,  once  on  a  time, — 
There  is  never  an  echo  now  to  ring 

Remembrance  back  to  the  trick  of  rhyme. 

^Tis  strange  you  cannot  sing  (quoth  he), — 
The  folk  all  sing  in  Arcady. 

But  how  may  he  find  Arcady 
Who  hath  nor  youth  nor  melody  ? 

Whai,  know  you  not,  old  man  (quoth  he), — 
Your  hair  is  white,  your  face  is  wise, — 
That  Love  must  kiss  that  MortaVs  eyes 

Who  hopes  to  see  fair  Arcady? 

No  gold  can  huy  you  entrance  there; 

But  beggared  Love  may  go  all  hare — 

No  wisdom  won  with  weariness ; 

But  Love  goes  in  with  Folly^s  dress — 

No  fame  that  wit  could  ever  win; 

But  only  Love  may  lead  Love  in 
To  Arcady,  to  Arcady. 

Ah,  woe  is  me,  through  all  my  days 

Wisdom  and  wealth  I  both  have  got, 
And  fame  and  name  and  great  men's  praise; 


Later  and  Present-Day  Writers  429 

But  Love,  ah  Love !  I  have  it  not. 
There  was  a  time,  when  Hfe  was  new — 

But  far  away,  and  half  forgot — 
I  only  know  her  eyes  were  blue; 

But  Love — I  fear  I  knew  it  not. 
We  did  not  wed,  for  lack  of  gold, 
And  she  is  dead,  and  I  am  old. 
All  things  have  come  since  then  to  me, 
Save  Love,  ah  Love !  and  Arcady. 

Ab,  then  I  fear  we  part  (quote  he), — 
My  ways  for  Love  and  Arcady. 

But  you,  you  fare  alone,  Kke  me; 

The  gray  is  likewise  in  your  hair. 

What  Love  have  you  to  lead  you  there, 
To  Arcady,  to  Arcady  ? 

Ah,  no,  not  lonely  do  I  fare; 

My  true  companion's  Memory. 
With  Love  he  fills  the  Spring-time  air; 

With  Love  he  clothes  the  Winter  tree. 
Oh,  past  this  poor  horizon'' s  hound 

My  song  goes  straight  to  one  who  stands, — 
Her  face  all  gladdening  at  the  sound, — 

To  lead  me  to  the  Spring-green  lands, 
To  wander  with  enlacing  hands. 
The  songs  within  my  breast  that  stir 
Are  all  of  her,  are  all  of  her, 
My  maid  is  dead  long  years  (quoth  he),— 
She  waits  for  me  in  Arcady. 

Oh,  yon^s  the  way  to  Arcady, 

To  Arcady,  to  Arcady; 
Oh,  yon^s  the  way  to  Arcady, 

Where  all  the  leaves  are  merry. 

II.    Ella  Wheeler  Wilcox  (1855-        )  is  a   contributor  to 
the  current  magazines  and  a  popular  writer  of  verse. 


430  American  Literature 

Worth  While  ^ 

'Tis  easy  enough  to  be  pleasant 

When  life  flows  along  like  a  song; 
But  the  man  worth  while  is  the  one  who  will  smile 

When  everything  goes  dead  wrong. 
For  the  test  of  the  heart  is  trouble, 

And  it  always  comes  with  the  years, 
And  the  smile  that  is  worth  the  praise  of  earth 

Is  the  smile  that  comes  through  tears. 

It  is  easy  enough  to  be  prudent 

When  nothing  tempts  you  to  stray; 
When  without  or  within  no  voice  of  sin 

Is  luring  your  soul  away. 
But  it's  only  a  negative  virtue 

Until  it  is  tried  by  fire, 
And  the  Hfe  that  is  worth  the  honor  of  earth 

Is  the  one  that  resists  desire. 

By  the  cynic,  the  sad,  the  fallen, 

Who  had  no  strength  for  the  strife, 
The  world's  highway  is  encumbered  to-day; 

They  make  up  the  item  of  Ufe. 
But  the  virtue  that  conquers  passion 

And  the  sorrow  that  hides  in  a  smile — 
It  is  these  that  are  worth  the  homage  of  earth, 

For  we  find  them  once  in  a  while. 

Recrimination  2 


Said  Life  to  Death:  "Methinks,  if  I  were  you, 
I  would  not  carry  such  an  awesome  face 
To  terrify  the  helpless  human  race; 

» Reprinted  from  Poems  of  Sentiment,  by  Ella  Wheeler  Wilcox,  copy- 
righted 1892,  1906,  by  special  permission  of  the  publishers,  The  W.  B. 
Conkey  Company,  Hammond,  Ind. 

*  Reprinted  from  Poems  of  Power,  by  Ella  Wheeler  Wilcox,  copyrighted 
1901, 1902, 1903,  by  special  permission  of  the  publishers,  The  W.  B.  Conkey 
Company,  Hammond,  Ind. 


Later  and  Present- Day  Writers  431 

And  if  indeed  those  wondrous  tales  be  true 
Of  happiness  beyond,  and  if  I  knew 
About  the  boasted  blessings  of  that  place, 
I  would  not  hide  so  miserly  all  trace 
Of  my  vast  knowledge,  Death,  if  I  were  you: 
But,  like  a  glorious  angel,  I  would  lean 
Above  the  pathway  of  each  sorrowing  soul, 
Hope  in  my  eyes,  and  comfort  in  my  breath, 
And  strong  conviction  in  my  radiant  mien. 
The  while  I  whispered  of  that  beauteous  goal. 
This  would  I  do  if  I  were  you,  O  Death." 

II 

Said  Death  to  Life:  "If  I  were  you,  my  friend, 
I  would  not  lure  confiding  souls  each  day 
With  fair,  false  smiles  to  enter  on  a  way 
So  filled  with  pain  and  trouble  to  the  end; 
I  would  not  tempt  those  whom  I  should  defend, 
Nor  stand  unmoved  and  see  them  go  astray; 
Nor  would  I  force  unwilling  souls  to  stay 
Who  longed  for  freedom,  were  I  you,  my  friend: 
But,  like  a  tender  mother,  I  would  take 
The  weary  world  upon  my  sheltering  breast, 
And  wipe  away  its  tears,  and  soothe  its  strife; 
I  would  fulfil  my  promises,  and  make 
My  children  bless  me  as  they  sank  to  rest 
Whe^e  now  they  curse — if  I  were  you,  O  Life." 

Ill 

Life  made  no  answer,  and  Death  spoke  again: 

"I  would  not  woo  from  God's  sweet  nothingness 

A  soul  to  being,  if  I  could  not  bless 

And  crown  it  with  all  joy.     If  unto  men 

My  face  seems  awesome,  tell  me.  Life,  why  then 

Do  they  pursue  me,  mad  for  my  caress, 

Believing  in  my  silence  lies  redress 

For  your  loud  falsehoods?"  (so  Death  spoke  again). 

*'0h,  it  is  well  for  you  I  am  not  fair — 

Well  that  I  hide  behind  a  voiceless  tomb 


432  American  Literature 

The  mighty  secrets  of  the  other  place : 

Else  would  you  stand  in  impotent  despair, 

While  unfledged  souls  straight  from  the  mother's  womb 

Rushed  to  my  arms  and  spat  upon  your  face !" 

12.  George  E.  Woodberry  (1855-  )  is  a  graduate  of 
Harvard.  For  many  years  he  was  professor  of  English  litera- 
ture at  Columbia  University.  His  verses  show  true  poetic  feel- 
ing. 

The  Child 

It  was  only  the  clinging  touch 

Of  a  child's  hand  in  the  street, 

But  it  made  the  whole  day  sweet; 

Caught,  as  he  ran  full-speed. 

In  my  own  stretched  out  to  his  need, 

Caught,  and  saved  from  the  fall, 

As  I  held,  for  the  moment's  poise, 

In  my  circUng  arms  the  whole  boy's 

Delicate  shghtness,  warmed  mould; 

Mine,  for  an  instant  mine. 

The  sweetest  thing  the  heart  can  divine, 

More  precious  than  fame  or  gold, 

The  crown  of  many  joys, 

Lay  in  my  breast,  all  mine. 

I  was  nothing  to  him; 

He  neither  looked  up  nor  spoke; 

I  never  saw  his  eyes; 

He  was  gone  ere  my  mind  awoke 

From  the  action's  quick  surprise 

With  vision  blurred  and  dim. 

You  say  I  ask  too  much : 

It  was  only  the  cHnging  touch 

Of  a  child  in  a  city  street; 

It  hath  made  the  whole  day  sweet. 

America  to  England 

Mother  of  nations,  of  them  eldest  we. 
Well  is  it  found,  and  happy  for  the  state. 


Later  and  Present-Day  Writers  433 

When  that  which  makes  men  proud  first  makest  them  great, 

And  such  our  fortune  is  who  sprang  from  thee, 

And  brought  to  this  new  land  from  over  sea 

The  faith  that  can  with  every  household  mate, 

And  freedom  whereof  law  is  magistrate, 

And  thoughts  that  make  men  brave,  and  leave  them  free. 

O  Mother  of  our  faith,  our  law,  our  lore. 

What  shall  we  answer  thee  if  thou  shouldst  ask 

How  this  fair  birthright  doth  in  us  increase  ? 

There  is  no  home  but  Christ  is  at  the  door; 

Freely  our  toiling  millions  choose  life's  task; 

Justice  we  love,  and  next  to  justice  peace. 

13.  Harry  Thurston  Peck  (1856-1914)  was  a  Connecticut 
scholar  who  held  for  many  years  the  chair  of  Latin  at  Columbia 
University. 

The  Other  One 

Sweet  little  maid  with  winsome  eyes 

That  laugh  all  day  through  the  tangled  hair; 
Gazing  with  baby  looks  so  wise 
Over  the  arm  of  the  oaken  chair. 
Dearer  than  you  is  none  to  me. 

Dearer  than  you  there  can  be  none; 
Since  in  your  laughing  face  I  see 
Eyes  that  tell  of  another  one. 

Here  where  the  firelight  softly  glows. 

Sheltered  and  safe  and  snug  and  warm, 
What  to  you  is  the  wind  that  blows, 
Driving  the  sleet  of  the  winter  storm? 
Round  your  head  the  ruddy  fight 

Glints  on  the  gold  from  your  tresses  spun, 
But  deep  is  the  drifting  snow  to-night 
Over  the  head  of  the  other  one. 

Hold  me  close  as  you  sagely  stand. 

Watching  the  dying  embers  shine; 
Then  shall  I  feel  another  hand 


434  American  Literature 

That  nestled  once  in  this  hand  of  mine; 
Poor  little  hand,  so  cold  and  chill, 

Shut  from  the  Kght  of  stars  and  sun, 
Clasping  the  withered  roses  still 

That  hide  the  face  of  the  sleeping  one* 

Laugh,  little  maid,  while  laugh  you  may, 

Sorrow  comes  to  us  all,  I  know; 
Better  perhaps  for  her  to  stay 
Under  the  robe  of  drifting  snow. 

Sing  while  you  may  your  baby  songs, 
Sing  till  your  baby  days  are  done; 
But  oh,  the  ache  of  the  heart  that  longs 
Night  and  day  for  the  other  one ! 

14.  Richard  Hovey  (i 864-1900)  was  a  graduate  of  Dart- 
mouth. His  genius  was  rather  slow  in  maturing,  but  he  showed 
great  promise  at  the  time  of  his  death.  He  wrote  Songs  from 
Vagabondia  in  collaboration  with  Bliss  Carman,  a  Canadian 
e^igaged  in  literary  work  in  the  United  States. 

The  Call  of  the  Bugles 
Bugles ! 

And  the  Great  Nation  thrills  and  leaps  to  arms ! 
Prompt,  unconstrained,  immediate, 
Without  misgiving  and  without  debate, 
Too  calm,  too  strong  for  fury  or  alarms. 
The  people  blossoms  armies  and  puts  forth 
The  splendid  summer  of  its  noiseless  might; 
For  the  old  sap  of  fight 
Mounts  up  in  South  and  North, 
The  thrill 

That  tingled  in  our  veins  at  Bunker  Hill 
And  brought  to  bloom  July  of  'Seventy-Six ! 
Pine  and  palmetto  mix 
With  the  sequoia  of  the  giant  West 
Their  ready  banners,  and  the  hosts  of  war. 
Near  and  far. 
Sudden  as  dawn, 


Later  and  Present-Day  Writers  435 

Innumerable  as  forests,  hear  the  call 

Of  the  bugles, 

The  battle-birds ! 

For  not  alone  the  brave,  the  fortunate, 

Who  first  of  all 

Have  put  their  knapsacks  on — 

They  are  the  valiant  vanguard  of  the  rest ! — 

Not  they  alone,  but  all  our  miUions  wait. 

Hand  on  sword. 

For  the  word 

That  bids  them  bid  the  nations  know  us  sons  of  Fate. 

Bugles ! 

And  in  my  heart  a  cry, 

— Like  a  dim  echo  far  and  mournfully 

Blown  back  to  answer  them  from  yesterday ! 

A  soldier's  burial ! 

November  hillsides  and  the  falling  leaves 

Where  the  Potomac  broadens  to  the  tide — 

The  crisp  autumnal  silence  and  the  gray 

(As  of  a  solemn  ritual 

Whose  congregation  glories  as  it  grieves, 

Widowed  but  still  a  bride) — 

The  long  hills  sloping  to  the  wave. 

And  the  long  bugler  standing  by  the  grave ! 

Taps ! 

The  lonely  call  over  the  lonely  woodlands — 

Rising  Hke  the  soaring  of  wings. 

Like  the  flight  of  an  eagle — 

Taps ! 

They  sound  forever  in  my  heart. 

From  farther  still, 

The  echoes — still  the  echoes  ! 

The  bugles  of  the  dead 

Blowing  from  spectral  ranks  an  answering  cry! 

The  ghostly  roll  of  immaterial  drums, 

Beating  reveille  in  the  camps  of  dream, 

As  from  far  meadows  comes. 


436  American  Literature 

Over  the  pathless  hill, 

The  irremeable  stream. 

I  hear  the  tread 

Of  the  great  armies  of  the  Past  go  by; 

I  hear, 

Across  the  wide  sea  wash  of  years  between, 

Concord  and  Valley  Forge  shout  back  from  the  unseen, 

And  Vicksburg  give  a  cheer. 

Our  cheer  goes  back  to  them,  the  valiant  dead ! 

Laurels  and  roses  on  their  graves  to-day, 

Lilies  and  laurels  over  them  we  lay. 

And  violets  o'er  each  unforgotten  head. 

Their  honor  still  with  the  returning  May 

Puts  on  its  springtime  in  our  memories. 

Nor  till  the  last  American  with  them  lies 

Shall  the  young  year  forget  to  strew  their  bed. 

Peace  to  their  ashes,  sleep  and  honored  rest ! 

But  we — awake ! 

Ours  to  remember  them  with  deeds  like  theirs  I 

From  sea  to  sea  the  insistent  bugle  blares, 

The  drums  will  not  be  still  for  any  sake; 

And  as  an  eagle  rears  his  crest. 

Defiant,  from  some  tall  pine  of  the  North, 

And  spreads  his  wings  to  fly. 

The  banners  of  America  go  forth 

Against  the  clarion  sky. 

Veteran  and  volunteer. 

They  who  were  comrades  of  that  shadow  host, 

And  the  young  brood  whose  veins  renew  the  fires 

That  burned  in  their  great  sires, 

Alike  we  hear 

The  summons  sounding  clear 

From  coast  to  coast, — 

The  cry  of  the  bugles, 

The  battle-birds ! 

*  .  *  •  • 

Bugles ! 

The  imperious  bugles ! 


Later  and  Present-Day  Writers  437 

Still  their  call 

Soars  like  an  exaltation  to  the  sky. 

They  call  on  men  to  fall, 

To  die,— 

Remembered  or  forgotten,  but  a  part 

Of  the  great  beating  of  the  Nation's  heart ! 

A  call  to  sacrifice ! 

A  call  to  victory ! 

Hark,  in  the  Empyrean 

The  battle-birds ! 

The  bugles! 


15.  William  Vaughn  Moody  (1869-19 10),  a  graduate  of  Har- 
vard, was  for  several  years  professor  in  the  department  of  En- 
glish at  the  University  of  Chicago.  He  wrote  many  poems  and 
several  dramas,  the  most  successful  of  which  is  The  Great  Divide, 
Many  of  his  lyrics  are  most  beautiful.  (See  Bibliography,  page 
441,  for  suggested  readings.) 


16.  Paul  Lawrence  Dunbar  (1872-1906)  is  the  first  repre- 
sentative of  the  African  race  to  attain  rank  as  an  American 
poet.  Some  of  his  work  has  the  true  lyric  ring.  At  the  time 
of  his  death  he  held  a  position  in  the  Library  of  Congress  at 
Washington,  D.  C. 


A  Corn-Song 

On  the  wide  veranda  white. 

In  the  purple  faiHng  light, 

Sits  the  master  while  the  sun  is  lowly  burning; 

And  his  dreamy  thoughts  are  drowned 

In  the  softly  flowing  sound 

Of  the  corn-songs  of  the  field-hands  slow  returning. 

Ohy  we  hoe  de  co'n 
Since  de  ehly  mo^n; 
Now  de  sinkin'  sun 
Says  de  day  is  done. 


438  American  Literature 

0  'er  the  fields  with  heavy  tread, 

Light  of  heart,  and  high  of  head. 

Though  the  halting  steps  be  labored,  slow,  and  weary; 

Still  the  spirits  brave  and  strong 

Find  a  comforter  in  song. 

And  their  corn-song  rises  ever  loud  and  cheery. 

Oh,  we  hoe  de  co'n 
Since  de  ehly  mo^n; 
Now  de  sinkin^  sun 
Says  de  day  is  done. 

And  a  tear  is  in  the  eye 

Of  the  master  sitting  by. 

As  he  listens  to  the  echoes  low-replying, 

To  the  music's  fading  calls. 

As  it  faints  away  and  falls 

Into  silence,  deep  within  the  cabin  dying. 

Oh,  we  hoe  de  co'n 
Since  de  ehly  mo'n; 
Now  de  sinkin*  sun 
Says  de  day  is  done. 


17.  Josephine  Preston  Peabody  Marks  (1874-  ),  for- 
merly an  instructor  at  Wellesley  College,  has  written  many 
poems  and  dramas.  Her  play  The  Piper  won  the  Stratford- 
on-Avon  prize  in  19 10  and  has  been  successfully  staged  both 
in  England  and  America.  (See  BibHography,  page  441,  for 
suggested  readings.) 


18.  Percy  MacKaye  (1875-  ),  a  graduate  of  Harvard, 
is  a  talented  writer  of  poetic  dramas.  Several  of  these  have 
been  successfully  staged,  as  The  Canterbury  Pilgrims,  Jeanne 
D^Arc,  and  The  Scarecrow.  A  Garland  to  Sylvia  is  a  fanciful 
reverie  in  dramatic  form  quite  unique  in  its  way.  His  latest 
poem,  School,  is  one  of  his  finest  poems. 


Later  and  Present- Day  Writers  439 

(From  Ode  on  the  Centenary  of  Abraham  Lincoln,  1909.  Delivered 
before  the  Brooklyn  Institute  of  Arts  and  Sciences  at  the 
Academy  of  Music,  Brooklyn,  New  York,  February,  1909.) 


VII 

"To  sleep,  perchance  to  dream !" — No  player,  rapt 

In  conscious  art's  soliloquy,  might  know 

To  subtilize  the  poignant  sense  so  apt 

As  he,  almost  in  shadow  of  the  end, 

Murmured  its  latent  sadness  to  a  friend; 

And  then  he  said  to  him:  ''Ten  nights  ago 

I  watched  alone;  the  hour  was  very  late; 

I  fell  asleep  and  dreamed; 

And  in  my  dreaming,  all 

The  White  House  lay  in  deathlike  stillness  round, 

But  soon  a  sobbing  sound. 

Subdued,  I  heard,  as  of  innumerable 

Mourners.     I  rose  and  went  from  room  to  room; 

No  Uving  being  there  was  visible; 

Yet  as  I  passed,  unspeakably  it  seemed 

They  sobbed  again,  subdued.     In  every  room 

Light  was,  and  all  things  were  famihar: 

But  who  were  those  once  more 

Whose  hearts  were  breaking  there?     What  heavy  gloom 

Wrapt  their  dumb  grieving  ?     Last,  the  East-room  door 

I  opened,  and  it  lay  before  me :  High 

And  dold  on  solemn  catafalque  it  lay, 

Draped  in  funereal  vestments,  and  near  by 

Mute  soldiers  guarded  it.     In  black  array, 

A  throng  of  varied  race 

Stood  weeping. 

Or  gazing  on  the  covered  face. 

Then  to  a  soldier:  'Who  is  dead 

In  the  White  House ?' I  asked.     He  said: 

'The  President.' 

And  a  great  moan  that  through  the  people  went 

Waked  me  from  sleeping." 


440  American  Literature 


VIII 

It  was  a  dream !  for  that  which  fell  in  death, 
Seared  by  the  assassin's  lightning,  and  there  lay 
A  spectacle  for  anguish  was  a  wraith; 
The  real  immortal  Lincoln  went  his  way 
Back  to  his  only  home  and  native  heath — 
The  common  people's  common  heart. 


XII 

Leave  then,  that  wonted  grief 

Which  honorably  mourns  its  martyred  dead, 

And  newly  hail  instead 

The  birth  of  him,  our  hardy  shepherd  chief, 

Who  by  green  paths,  of  old  democracy 

Leads  still  his  tribes  to  uplands  of  glad  peace. 

As  long  as — out  of  blood  and  passion  blind — 

Springs  the  pure  justice  of  the  reasoning  mind, 

And  justice,  bending,  scorns  not  to  obey 

Pity,  that  once  in  a  poor  manger  lay, 

As  long  as,  thralled  by  time's  imperious  will, 

Brother  hath  bitter  need  of  brother,  still 

His  presence  shall  not  cease 

To  lift  the  ages  toward  his  human  excellence, 

And  races  yet  to  be 

Shall  in  a  rude  hut  do  him  reverence 

And  solemnize  a  simple  man's  nativity. 

BIBLIOGRAPHY 
For  Further  Illustration 

Bunner,  H.  C:  Candor.     (From  Airs  from  Arcady  and  Elsewhere,) 
October.     {Yiom  Airs  from  Arcady  and  Elsewhere.) 
A  Wood.     (From  Airs  from  Arcady  and  Elsewhere,) 
The  Nice  People.     (In  Short  Sixes.) 
The  Love  Letters  of  Smith.     (In  Short  Sixes). 

Carleton,  W. :  Out  of  the  Old  House,  Nancy. 


Later  and  Present- Day  Writers  441 

Field,  E.:  The  Little  Book  of  Western  Verse. 
Gilder,  R.  W.:  The  Life  Mask  of  Abraham  Lincoln. 

The  Cello. 
MacKaye,  P. :  A  Garland  to  Sylvia.    School.  (In  The  Forum,  October 

1913-) 

Jeanne  d'Arc. 
Marks,  J.  P.  Peabody:  The  Singing  Leaves.     (Selected  Poems.) 

A  Book  of  Songs  and  Spells.     (Selected  Poems.) 

The  Piper.     (A  drama.) 
Miller,    Joaquin:    That    Gentleman   from    Boston.     (In    Complete 
Poetical  Works.) 

An  Idyl  of  Oregon.     (In  Complete  Poetical  Works.) 
Moody,  W.  v.:  The  Great  Divide.     (A  drama.) 

The  Faith  Healer.     (A  drama.) 
Riley,  J.  W.:  When  the  Frost  is  on  the  Pumpkin.     (In  Neighborly 
Poems.) 

An  Old  Played  Out  Song.     (In  Neighborly  Poems.) 
Stedman,  E.  C:  Pan  in  Wall  Street. 

Helen  Keller. 

The  Diamond  Wedding, 


CHAPTER    VI 

TENDENCIES 
/.     The  American  Magazine 

A  glance  backward  and  a  view  of  the  present  reveal 
two  striking  features  in  the  literary  history  of  America, 
the  modern  magazine  and  the  short  story.  Our  literary 
efforts  have  crystallized  about  these  two;  they  are  dis- 
tinctively American.  The  magazine,  indeed,  holds  a  unique 
place  in  the  history  of  our  literature.  From  the  beginning 
it  has  discovered  talent  to  the  world;  it  has  created  a 
reading  pubHc  for  many  of  our  great  writers.  Thus,  Hal- 
leck's  Marco  Bozzaris  and  Bryant's  Death  of  the  Flowers 
were  first  published  in  the  New  York  Review;  Bryant's 
Thanatopsis  and  To  a  Water  Fowl  appeared  in  the  North 
American  Review;  Poe's  Raven  was  first  published  in  the 
New  York  Mirror;  Longfellow's  Psalm  of  Life  came  out  in 
the  Knickerbocker  Magazine;  Holmes's  first  two  instalments 
of  TJie  Autocrat  of  tJte  Breakfast  Table  were  published  in  the 
New  England  Magazine,  the  later  ones  in  the  Atlantic 
Monthly;  Whitman's  first  literary  success,  Death  in  a 
School-Room,  came  out  in  the  Democratic  Review;  Lowell's 
earher  series  of  Biglow  Papers  was  published  in  the  Boston 
Courier;  E.  E.  Hale's  The  Man  Without  a  Country  in  the 
Atlantic  Monthly;  W.  D.  Howells's  Venetian  Life  in  the 
Boston  Advertiser.     And  these  are  but  a  few  instances. 

The  editorial  history  of  American  magazines  discloses 
the  following  facts.  FrankUn,  in  1741,  pubHshed  the  Gen- 
eral Magazine,  which  ran  for  six  months.     Charles  Brock- 

442 


Tendencies  443 

den  Brown  established  the  Literary  Magazine,  which  lived 
for  five  years.  Richard  Henry  Dana,  Edward  Everett, 
James  Russell  Lowell,  and  Charles  EHot  Norton  were  suc- 
cessively editors  of  the  North  American  Review,  whose  pur- 
pose was  "the  cultivation  of  literature  and  the  discussion 
of  philosophy."  The  Knickerbocker  was  known  as  Irving's 
magazine  from  the  fact  that  he  was  its  chief  contributor. 
Poe  was  editor  of  the  Southern  Literary  Messenger,  then  of 
the  Gentleman's  Magazine,  which  afterward  became  Gra- 
ham's, the  most  popular  periodical  between  the  years  1840 
and  1850  and  to  which  Longfellow,  Lowell,  and  Whittier 
sent  contributions.  Margaret  Fuller,  Emerson,  and  George 
Ripley  conducted  the  Dial.  Nathaniel  Parker  Willis,  "the 
most  picturesque  figure  in  ante- war  periodical  literature," 
was  editor  of  Peter  Parley's  Token  and  the  Mirror,  and  es- 
tablished, in  1839,  the  New  York  Corsair,  "a  Gazette  of 
Literature,  Art,  Dramatic  Criticism,  Fashion,  and  Novelty." 
Harper's,  founded  in  1850,  was  notable  in  its  early  years 
for  introducing  the  serial  publication  of  works  of  many 
leading  English  authors,  including  Dickens,  Thackeray,  and 
Eliot,  and  was  the  first  American  magazine  to  make  regu- 
lar use  of  illustration.  Putnam's  Monthly,  established  under 
the  editorship  of  George  William  Curtis,  flourished  from 
1852  to  1857.  The  Atlantic  Monthly  was  founded  in  1857 
with  James  Russell  Lowell  as  editor,  and  from  its  beginning 
contained  the  contributions  of  Longfellow,  Holmes,  Lowell, 
and  the  rest  of  the  classic  group  of  New  England  authors, 
many  of  whom  had,  indeed,  been  concerned  in  its  estab- 
lishment. Scrihner's  Monthly  was  begun  in  1870  under  the 
editorship  of  Doctor  J.  G.  Holland,  and  in  1881  became 
the  Century  Magazine.  It  numbered  many  then  new  but 
now  familiar  writers  among  its  contributors,  and  raised  il- 
lustration for  the  first  time  to  a  really  important  position 


444  American  Literature 

as  a  feature  of  periodical  literature.  Scrihner^s  MagazinCy 
founded  in  1887,  was  supported  from  its  foundation  by  a 
group  of  the  best-known  younger  authors  of  the  time  (among 
them  Stevenson),  to  which  has  since  been  added  a  long 
succession  of  new  writers,  including  the  leading  names  of 
America  and  England  in  fiction  and  in  the  field  of  general 
literature.  This  magazine  has  carried  illustration  to  a  new 
point  of  excellence  from  both  the  artistic  and  the  mechanical 
points  of  view. 

The  success  of  the  greater  magazines,  with  perhaps  a 
demand  for  something  more  journalistic  in  character,  has 
produced  a  large  number  of  also  widely  circulated  cheaper 
periodicals,  which  have  become  the  vehicles  of  shorter 
fiction,  descriptive  articles,  and  discussion  of  the  questions 
of  the  day.  Except  in  a  few  cases,  however,  they  have 
had  little  in  common  with  the  more  permanent  conception 
of  the  literary  magazine,  and  but  for  their  general  effect 
hardly  come  within  the  compass  of  this  sketch. 

Our  age  of  specialization  has  called  forth  journals  for 
discussion  of  thought  progress  in  all  fields  of  human  knowl- 
edge. And  so  we  have  such  sheets  as  the  Engineering  Maga- 
zine, the  Psychological  Review^  Current  Opinion,  the  Scientific 
American,  the  Quarterly  Journal  of  Economics,  the  Journal 
of  Sociology,  the  Educational  Review;  each  special  field  of 
endeavor  expressing  itself  through  its  own  special  organ. 
Thus  it  is  possible  to-day  to  furnish,  through  the  maga- 
zine, an  intellectual  diet  suited  to  all  tastes.  The  maga- 
zine adapts  itself  to  the  rush  and  hurry  of  American  life; 
it  fits  in  with  our  scheme  of  things.  The  magazine — which 
may  be  picked  up  and  thrown  down  at  will — has  forced  to 
the  shelf  the  book,  which  requires  leisure  and  quiet  concen- 
tration, especially  the  book  that  has  stood  the  test  of  ages. 
We  still  have  our  libraries  fitted  out  with  the  five-foot 


Tendencies  445 

shelf,  but  the  books  too  often  remain  on  the  shelf,  while 
our  study  tables  are  strewn  with  magazines  of  all  sorts 
and  colors.  It  has  truly  served  a  noble  purpose  in  the 
history  of  American  letters.  Through  its  efforts  literature 
has  been  democratized;  the  reading  public  has  been  enor- 
mously increased.  The  development  of  Uterature,  exten- 
sively through  the  impulse  given  it  by  the  magazine,  is 
beyond  measure.  But  has  literature  lost  or  is  it  losing  in- 
tensively because  of  its  widened  scope?  Does  our  great 
and  growing  dependence  on  periodical  literature  signify 
danger  ahead  ?  Must  our  literature,  in  order  to  arouse  in- 
terest, present  a  constantly  changing  moving-picture  show  ? 
Shall  we  lose  our  power  to  appreciate  and  enjoy  sustained 
efforts  through  overindulgence  in  the  short  story  and  brief 
magazine  article?  Are  we,  indeed,  already  missing  some- 
thing of  sweetness  and  light  in  our  literature  because  of  con- 
stant catering  to  the  prevailing  magazine  taste  of  the  read- 
ing public  ?  To-day,  it  is  said,  "  we  lack  the  leisure  to  grow 
wise";  but  surely  these  questions  must  give  us  pause,  must 
furnish  food  for  thought  as  we  enter  upon  the  second  decade 
of  the  twentieth  century. 

BIBLIOGRAPHY 

Alden,  Henry  Mills:   Magazine   Writing   and  the  New  Literature. 

Cairns,  W.  B.:  Ow  the  Development  of  American  Literature  from  1815 
to  1833.  (An  exhaustive  treatment  of  the  eady  periodical  liter- 
ature of  America.) 

Faxon,  F.  W.:  Check  List  of  American  and  English  Periodicals. 

GilfiUan,  G.:  Prospective  Periodical  Literature.  (In  Hogg,  vol. 
XII,  p.  97.) 

Holmes,  0.  W.:  American  Magazines.  (In  The  Atlantic,  vol.  LV,  p. 
105.) 

Nichols,  I.:  American  Literature. 

Palfrey,  J.  G.:  Periodical  Literature  of  AnCerica.  (In  North  Amer- 
ican Review,  vol.  XXXIX,  p.  277.) 


446  American  Literature 

Check  List  of  American  Magazines.      (In  Library  Journal,  vol. 

XIV,  p.  373.) 
Periodical  Literature  of  America.     (In  Blackwood,  vol.  LXIII, 

p.  io6.) 
Periodical  Press  of  the  United  States.      (In  Eraser,  vol.  LXVIII, 

p.  325-) 
Tenth  Report  of  the   United  States  Census,   1884,  vol.  VIII. 
(This  contains  a  statistical  report  of  the  newspaper  and 
periodical  press  of  America.) 

//.     The  American  Short  Story 

The  American  short  story  is  recognized  to-day  "as  a 
separate  literary  genre''  to  use  Professor  C.  Alphonso 
Smith's  happy  phrase.  In  The  Philosophy  of  the  Short 
Story  Professor  Brander  Matthews  asserts  that  as  early  as 
1884  he  had  discovered  that  there  was  an  essential  differ- 
ence, aside  from  the  matter  of  length,  between  the  short 
story  and  the  novel.  But  the  German  critic  Friedrich 
Spielhagen  in  his  Novelle  oder  Roman  had,  in  1876,  made  the 
distinction  clear,  and  Poe,  as  early  as  1842,  had  analyzed 
with  great  care  the  difference  in  technic  between  the  novel 
and  the  tale,  as  he  called  the  short  story.  All  literary 
critics  now  agree  that  the  short  story,  far  from  being  an 
abridgment  of  a  possible  novel  is  a  thing  distinctive  in  the 
field  of  Hterary  technic,  with  a  nature  all  its  own. 

The  reasons  for  the  development  of  this  distinctive 
Hterary  forni  in  America  are  to  be  found  in  the  hfe  of  the 
people.  Here  again  is  an  instance  of  the  truth  that  litera- 
ture is  life.  The  circumstances  of  pioneer  Ufe  in  the  early 
days,  growing  into  conditions  favorable  to  a  great  and  new 
industrial  development  in  later  times,  have  discounted 
leisure  as  a  factor  of  any  moment  in  the  Ufe  of  the  average 
American.  The  rush  and  hurry  here  from  the  start,  the 
bigness  of  opportunity  in  America,  the  iteration  and  re- 
iteration of  the  cry  "So  much  to  do,  so  little  done,"  have 


Tendencies  447 

forced  upon  Americans  an  acquired  character  which  has 
become  practically  a  national  race  trait.  The  restless 
spirit  of  the  work-time  of  the  American  has  thus  come  to 
dominate  also  his  play- time.  He  has  had  and  still  has  little 
desire  for  Hterary  recreation  which  requires  deliberate, 
continuous  employment  of  his  leisure  moments.  What 
more  natural,  then,  than  that  the  short  story  should  find 
universal  favor  in  America,  if  only  for  its  shortness  ?  The 
growth  of  the  magazine,  too,  fostered  the  development  of 
the  short  story,  for  the  magazine  became  the  natural 
medium  for  its  distribution.  And  finally,  the  genius  of  the 
short  story,  Edgar  Allan  Poe,  chose  America  for  his  theatre 
and  he  chose  it  early  in  the  literary  history  of  the  country. 
He  showed  the  power  of  this  literary  form,  and  it  rapidly 
became  the  vogue. 

The  account  of  the  origin  and  development  of  the  short 
story  in  America  makes  a  most  interesting  chapter  in  its 
literary  history.  Looking  backward  through  our  literary 
records  we  first  catch  glimpses  of  the  short  story  in  the 
work  of  Charles  Brockden  Brown.  Short  stories  are  em- 
bedded in  his  long  stories  of  Arthur  Merwyn  and  Wieland. 
Brown  gives  us  the  short  story  in  solution,  but  the  solu- 
tion is  nevpr  precipitated.  He  is  merely  the  potential  short- 
story  writer. 

Beginning  with  Irving,  however,  the  form  becomes  crys- 
tallized; in  his  sketches  and  tales  we  readily  discover  the 
germ  of  the  story  of  local  color  which  is  so  popular  to-day. 
The  influence  of  eighteenth  century  writers,  especially  of 
Addison  and  Steele,  is  very  evident  in  the  work  of  Irving. 
But,  as  Professor  Smith  says,  Irving's  tales  and  sketches 
*'are  an  evolution  from  rather  than  an  imitation  of  the 
Spectator.  Sir  Roger  de  Coverley,"  he  continues,  "is  a  typ- 
ical character  sketch.     But  Rip  van  Winkle  is  more  than 


448  American  Literature 

a  character  sketch,  it  is  a  character  sketch  in  the  moment 
of  transition  into  a  short  story."  After  Irving  but  one 
really  good  short  story  appeared  before  Poe  began  writing. 
This  was  William  Austin's  Peter  Rugg,  published  in  1824, 
which,  in  theme  and  atmosphere,  is  prophetic  of  Haw- 
thorne. 

With  Poe  the  short  story  becomes  a  distinctive  literary 
t)^e,  a  form  essentially  and  pecuUarly  American.  With 
him  it  is  a  conscious,  deUberate  creation  of  the  literary 
technician.  And  he  analyzes  his  method  minutely  and 
presents  it  in  clear  imequi vocal  terms,  so  that  all  who  run 
may  read  and  those  who  dare  may  follow.  Writing  in 
Graham^ s  Magazine  for  May,  1842,  he  says:  "A  skillful 
literary  artist  has  constructed  a  tale.  If  wise,  he  has  not 
fashioned  his  thoughts  to  accommodate  his  incidents;  but 
having  conceived  with  deliberate  care  a  certain  unique  or 
single  effect  to  be  wrought  out,  he  then  invents  such  in- 
cidents— ^he  then  combines  such  events — as  may  best  aid 
him  in  establishing  this  preconceived  effect.  If  his  very 
initial  sentence  tend  not  to  the  out-bringing  of  this  effect, 
then  he  has  failed  in  his  first  step.  In  the  whole  composition 
there  should  be  no  word  written  of  which  the  tendency, 
direct  or  indirect,  is  not  to  the  one  pre-established  design. 
And  by  such  means,  with  such  care  and  skill,  a  picture  is 
at  length  painted  which  leaves  in  the  mind  of  him  who 
contemplates  it  with  a  kindred  art  a  sense  of  the  fullest 
satisfaction.  The  idea  of  the  tale  has  been  presented  un- 
blemished because  undisturbed;  and  this  is  an  end  unat- 
tainable by  the  novel." 

Hawthorne's  name  is  linked  with  Poe's  as  the  greatest 
of  American  short-story  writers.  Yet  his  method  is  totally 
unUke  Poe's;  his  aim  wholly  different.  And  his  technic 
is  far  less  perfect,  but  the  impression  he  makes  is  just  as 


Tendencies  449 

forceful;  the  effect,  perhaps,  more  lasting.  As  writers  of 
the  weird  they  stand  unexcelled;  but  the  weirdness  of  Poe 
is  realistic,  the  weirdness  of  Hawthorne  symbolic. 

The  next  contribution  to  our  short-story  literature  was 
made  by  Fitz- James  O'Brien  in  1859  with  his  tale  What 
Was  It?  whose  mystery  is  wrought  with  an  almost  Poe-Hke 
touch.  This  was  followed  in  1863  by  Edward  Everett 
Hale's  The  Man  Without  a  Country,  which  now  ranks  as  one 
of  our  American  classics. 

In  that  same  year  Bret  Harte,  our  next  short-story 
writer  of  note,  began  to  send  stories  to  the  magazines.  He 
originated  a  new  type  and,  after  the  manner  of  Poe,  made 
a  critical  analysis  of  his  method,  for  he  believed  that  he 
was  the  first  to  write  the  typical  American  story.  Since 
his  formula  has  been  followed  by  many  of  our  recent  tellers 
of  tales  I  shall  quote  from  his  article  in  the  Cornhill 
Magazine,  July,  1899,  in  which  he  tells  us  how  to  do 
it..  ''The  secret  of  the  American  short  story,"  he  says, 
''is  the  treatment  of  characteristic  American  life,  with 
absolute  knowledge  of  its  peculiarities  and  sympathy  with 
its  methods;  with  no  fastidious  ignoring  of  its  habitual 
expression,  or  the  inchoate  poetry  that  may  be  found  hidden 
even  in  its  slang;  with  no  moral  determination  except  that 
which  may  be  the  legitimate  outcome  of  the  story  itself; 
with  no  more  elimination  than  may  be  necessary  for  the 
artistic  conception,  and  never  from  the  fear  of  the  fetish 
of  conventionalism.  Of  such  is  the  American  short  story  of 
to-day,  the  germ  of  American  literature  to  come." 

The  name  of  the  short-story  writer  of  to-day  is  legion. 
A  review  of  the  preceding  pages  of  this  volume  and  a  glance 
at  the  table  of  contents  of  a  few  numbers  of  our  current 
magazines  and  periodicals  will  show  to  what  extent  the  short 
story  has  taken  hold  of  the  American  public.     The  demand 


450  American  Literature 

is  insistent,  constant;  the  supply  plentiful  and  really  good. 
The  short  story  has  become  the  dominant  note  in  the  liter- 
ary history  of  America.  It  has  become  indeed  and  in  truth 
the  literary  genre  of  America. 

BIBLIOGRAPHY 

Albright,  Evelyn  M.:  The  Short  Story.     (1907.) 
Barrett,  C.  R.:  Short  Story  Writing.     (1900.) 
Can  by,  H.  S.:  The  Short  Story  in  English.     (1909.) 
Dye,  C:  The  Story  Teller^s  Art.     (1907.) 
Esenwein,  J.  Berg.:  Writing  the  Short  Story.     (1908.) 
Grabo,  C.  N.:  The  Art  of  the  Short  Story.     (1913.) 
[arte,  Bret :  The  Rise  of  the  Short  Story.     (In  the  Cornhill  Magazine, 

July,  1899.) 

Jessup,  A.,  and  Canby,  H.  S.:  The  Book  of  the  Short  Story.  (1903.) 
Mabie,  H.  W.:  American  Fiction  Old  arid  New.     (In  The  Outlook , 

October  26,  191 2.) 
Matthews,  B.:  The  Philosophy  of  the  Short  Story.     (1901.) 

The  Short  Story :  Specimens  Illustrating  its  Development .    ( 1 90 7 . ) 
Notestein,  L.  L.,  and  Dunn,  W.  H.:    The  Modern  Short  Story. 

(1914.) 
Perry,  Bliss:  A  Study  of  Prose  Fiction,  chapter  XII.     (1902.) 
Pitkin,  Walter  B.:  Short  Story  Writing.     (191 2.) 
Smith,  C.  Alphonso:  The  American  Short  Story.     (191 2.) 
Smith,  Lewis  W.:  The  Writing  of  the  Short  Story.     (1902.) 

///.     The  American  Drama 

Many  critics  to-day  believe  that  as  the  conversational 
essay  shadowed  forth  the  short  story,  so  the  short  story 
shadows  forth  the  drama;  that  indeed  the  day  of  the 
drama  in  American  letters  is  almost  come.  Nearly  twenty 
years  ago  Professor  Brander  Matthews  declared  that  the 
time  was  ripe  for  the  ascendancy  of  the  drama  in  our  litera- 
ture, and  Mr.  Percy  MacKaye  in  The  Playhouse  and  the 
Play,  published  in  19 10,  says:  "Our  national  life  now  claims 
the  theater  to  express  itself  and  to  that  end  the  theater 
must  be  overhauled  and  reconstructed  to  meet  the  larger 


Tendencies  451 

needs  of  national  life.     In  America  itself,  lies  the  assured 
renascence  of  American  drama." 

There  is  no  doubt  that  the  development  of  dramatic 
literature  in  America  was  retarded  in  the  early  years  of  the 
nineteenth  century  by  the  remarkable  growth  of  periodical 
literature  and  the  wide  popularity  of  the  story  as  the  pre- 
ferred literary  type.  The  potential  play-writer  was  lured 
into  one  or  the  other  of  these  fields.  The  American  stage 
of  those  times  merely  reflected  the  London  theater.  There, 
under  the  leadership  of  John  Philip  Kemble,  the  English 
players  gave  reproductions  of  the  old  dramatists,  especially 
of  Shakespeare.  After  this  followed  a  period  of  importa- 
tion and  adaptation  of  the  German  and  French  dramas  for 
both  the  American  and  the  EngHsh  audience.  There  was 
no  call  for  the  actor  to  be  the  abstract  and  brief  chronicle 
of  his  time,  as  in  the  days  of  Shakespeare  and  later  of 
Sheridan.  The  newspaper,  which  Professor  Matthews  calls 
^'a  slice  of  contemporary  Hfe,"  set  forth  from  day  to  day  the 
joys  of  living  and  the  tragedies  of  Hfe  withal.  There  was 
no  demand  for  the  play  which  mirrored  the  life  of  the  age 
and  the  nation.  But  with  the  full  realization  of  selfhood 
as  a  nation,  Americans  came  to  demand  nationalism  in  their 
literary  products.  The  desire  for  the  local  color  touch  on 
our  stage  harks  back,  indeed,  to  our  first  successful  play- 
wright, Royall  Tyler,  whose  drama  The  Contrast  was  a 
plea  for  things  American  in  face  of  the  even-then  fashion- 
able Anglomania.  No  general  movement,  however,  .for 
nationalism  in  the  American  drama  took  place  until  within 
comparatively  recent  years.  James  A.  Heme  (1840-1901), 
in  such  dramas  as  Margaret  Flemming,  Shore  Acres,  and 
Sag  Harbor,  and  Bronson  Howard,  in  Shenandoah  and  The 
Henrietta,  first  gave  the  American  public  a  taste  of  the  play 
that  was  truly  American  in  outlook  and  theme,  and  such 


452  American  Literature 

plays  became  immensely  popular.  The  hint  was  taken  by 
other  writers  of  plays  and  soon  Augustus  Thomas,  Clyde 
Fitch,  and  Edward  Sheldon  were  furnishing  the  stage  with 
the  season's  leading  play,  for  example,  Arizona,  Nathan 
Hale,  and  Salvation  Nell.  More  and  more  of  late  have 
writers  turned  their  talents  to  the  making  of  plays,  until 
to-day  university  men  who  are  electing  for  themselves  the 
hterary  career  are  deUberately  choosing  the  dramatic  form 
in  which  to  voice  their  message.  Witness  in  this  connec- 
tion, the  work  of  William  Vaughn  Moody  in  such  plays  as 
The  Faith  Healer  and  The  Great  Divide,  and  the  work  of 
Percy  MacKaye  in  Jeanne  d^Arc,  The  Canterbury  Pilgrims ^ 
and  The  Scarecrow.  Many  other  Americans  are  also  pro- 
ducing notable  dramatic  work.  To  mention  only  three: 
Josephine  Preston  Peabody  Marks,  whose  play  The  Piper 
won  the  Stratford  prize  in  1910;  Charles  Rann  Kennedy 
(though  born  in  England,  we  may  call  him  an  American), 
whose  symbolic  dramas  The  Servant  in  the  House  and  The 
Terrible  Meek  have  aroused  much  interest  among  play- 
goers; and  David  Belasco,  whose  play  The  Return  of  Peter 
Grimm  is,  says  Professor  Matthews,  ''more  vitally  poetic, 
more  sincerely  imaginative,  and  more  subtly  truthful  in  its 
psychology  than  Maeterlinck's  Monna  Vanna  and  Haupt- 
mann's  Sunken  Bell.^' 

The  interest  of  the  literary  leaders  of  America  in  this 
form  of  expression  is  shown  by  the  organization  of  such 
associations  as  the  Wisconsin  Dramatic  Society,  whose  mem- 
bers include  the  leaders  of  culture,  not  only  in  the  Uni- 
versity of  Wisconsin  but  throughout  the  State;  and  of  the 
Drama  League  of  America,  with  branches  in  most  of  our 
large  and  in  many  of  our  small  cities.  The  avowed  purpose 
of  these  organizations  is  to  create  an  audience  for  the  good 
play,  to  educate  the  pubUc  dramatic  taste.     Other  evidences 


Tendencies  453 

of  this  interest  are  the  work  of  Miss  Minnie  Hersts  as 
director  of  the  Educational  Theatre  for  Children  and 
Young  People  (New  York  City) ;  of  Charles  Sprague  Smith 
of  the  People's  Institute  of  New  York  City;  of  Donald 
Robertson  of  Chicago  with  his  endowed  repertoire;  and 
of  Winthrop  Ames  of  New  York  City  with  the  New  Theatre 
during  its  brief  existence  and  with  the  Little  Theatre  since 
its  foundation  January  i,  191 2.  The  popularity  of  the 
dramatic  form  is  also  shown  by  the  successful  dramatiza- 
tion of  American  novels  and  stories,  noteworthy  instances 
of  which  are  Ben-Hur,  The  Awakening  of  Helena  Ritchie, 
Rebecca  of  Sunnybrook  Farm,  Little  Women,  and  The  Trail 
vf  the  Lonesome  Pine. 

Is  the  peculiar  restlessness  of  the  average  American,  be- 
fore spoken  of,  creating  such  a  distaste  for  the  old-fashioned 
idle  hour  in  the  Hbrary  that  he  must  have  his  stories  read 
to  him  from  the  stage  ?  Will  this  desire  become  sufficiently 
wide-spread  and  emphatic  to  force  the  best  of  our  literary 
activities  into  dramatic  form?  The  novel  has  never  been 
in  perfect  tune  with  American  life;  and  the  great  American 
novel  has  never  been  written.  The  short  story  has  struck 
the  key-note  of  American  life  here  and  there;  and  the  great 
short  story  has  been  written  now  and  again.  In  1899  Bret 
Harte  called  the  American  short  story  ''the  germ  of  Ameri- 
can literature  to  come."  Will  the  near  future  give  us  the 
great  American  play?  The  signs  of  the  times  seem  to  an- 
swer ''Yes."  Mr.  William  Dean  Howells  contends  that  we 
have  already  "a  drama  which  has  touched  our  life  in  many 
characteristic  points,  which  has  dealt  with  our  moral  and 
material  problems  ^.^d  penetrated  psychological  regions 
which  it  seemed  impossible  an  art  so  objective  should 
reach.  Mainly  it  has  been  gay  as  our  prevalent  mood  is; 
mainly  it  has  been  honest  as  our  habit  is  in  cases  where 


454  American  Literature 

we  believe  we  can  afford  it;  mainly  it  has  been  decent 
and  clean  and  sweet  as  our  average  life  is;  and  now  that 
Ibsen  no  longer  writes  new  plays,  I  would  rather  take  my 
chance  of  pleasure  and  profit  with  a  new  American  play 
than  with  any  other  sort  of  new  play."  "If  ever  a  nation 
was  ready  for  a  national  drama,"  declares  Professor  Smith, 
"that  nation  is  America."  And  "when  it  comes,"  he  con- 
tinues, "as  surely  it  will  come,  the  short  story  will  have 
achieved  its  greatest  triumph." 

BIBLIOGRAPHY 

Andrews,  Charlton:  The  Drama  To-day. 
Archer,  William:  A  Manual  of  Craftsmanship. 
Coffin,  Charies  H.:  The  Appreciation  of  the  Drama. 
Craig,  E.  Gordon:  On  the  Art  of  the  Theater. 

Crawford,  Mary  Caroline:  The  Romance  of  the  American  Theatre. 
Dukes,  Ashley:  Modern  Dramatists. 
Eaton,  Walter  Pritchard:  The  American  Stage  of  Today. 
Hale,  E.  E.,  Jr.:  Dramatists. 

Hamilton,  Clayton:  The  Theory  of  the  Theatre  and  Other  Principles 
of  Dramatic  Criticism. 
Studies  in  Stagecraft. 
Hapgood,  Norman:  The  Stage  in  America. 
Hunt,  Elizabeth  R. :  The  Play  of  Today. 

The  Drama  League  Convention.     (In  The  Drama,  August,  191 2.) 
Jones,  Arthur  Henry:  The  Foundation  of  a  National  Drama.     (In 

North  American  Review,  November,  1907.) 
Leonard,  W.  E. :  The  Wisconsin  Dramatic  Society.     (In  The  Drama, 

May,  191 2.) 
MacKaye,  Percy:  The  Playhouse  and  the  Play. 
Matthews,  B.:  ^  Stiidy  of  the  Drama. 
Studies  of  the  Stage. 
The  Development  of  the  Drama. 

The  Great  American  Play.     (In  The  Saturday  Evening  Post, 
October  19,  191 2.) 
Moses,  Montrose  J.:  The  American  Dramatist. 
Peck,  Mary  Gray:  The  Movement  for  a  New  American  Drama.     (In 

The  English  Journal,  March,  191 2.) 
Sharp,  R,  F. :  ^  Short  History  of  the  English  Stage. 
Walkley,  A.  B.:  Drama  and  Life. 


INDEX 


Names  of  authors  from  whom  extracts  are  quoted  in  this  book  are  printed 
in  small  capitals;  names  of  all  other  authors  and  all  other  names  are  printed 
in  ordinary  lower-case;  titles  of  extracts  and  books  from  which  extracts  are 
chosen,  and  all  magazine  titles,  are  printed  in  italics;  titles  of  works  sug- 
gested for  reading  and  of  works  merely  mentioned  are  printed  in  lower- 
case roman,  enclosed  in  quotation  marks;  numbers  refer  to  page;  numbers 
in  black  type  refer  to  page  on  which  the  biographical  note  is  given. 


A  Corn  Song,  437. 

A  Flogging  at  Sea,  11 2-1 18. 

^*A  Garland  to  Sylvia,"  438. 

A  Glimpse  of  Mendelssohn,  251. 

"A    Golden    Wedding    and    Other 

Tales,"  320. 
A  Letter  from  Mr.  Ezekiel  Biglow, 

173-177. 
A  Literary  History  of  America,  405. 
"A  New  England  Nun,"  335. 
"A  Prince  of  India,"  217. 
A  Soutliern  Girl,  424. 
A  Storm  of  the  Bermudas,  7-9. 
A  Time-Worn  Belle,  48-49. 
A  True  Reportory  of  tlte  Wracke  and 

Redemption  of  Sir  Thomas  Gates,  7. 
"A  Victorian  Anthology,"  415. 
Abbott,  Lyman,  362. 
Absalom,  107-110. 
Adams,  John,  24. 
Addison,  24,  254,  447. 
Alcott,  Amos  Bronson,  200. 
Alcott,  Louisa,  200. 
Aldrich,  Thomas  Bailey,  224,  415. 
America,  118. 
America  to  England,  432. 
Ames,  Winthrop,  453. 
"An  American  Anthology,"  415. 
"Arizona,"  452. 
"Artemus  Ward."     See  Browne, 

Charles  F.,  200. 
Arthur  Merwyn,  55,  447. 


Atlantic  Monthly,  167,  178,  224,  303, 

443,  444- 
Austin,  William,  448. 
Autobiography  (Franklin's) ,  1 7, 24, 26. 

"Balaclava,"  273. 

Balder' s  Wife,  281. 

Baltimore,  275,  305. 

Barlow,  Joel,  46,  49. 

Bates,  Arlo,  391. 

Battle-Hymn  of  the  Republic,  291. 

Battle  of  the  Kegs,  41-43. 

Beecher,  Henry  Ward,  193,  247. 

Being  a  Lord,  324. 

Belasco,  David,  452. 

"Ben  Hur,  a  Tale  of  the  Christ," 

217,  453- 
Bibliography,  General,  3-4;  Colo- 
nial Epoch,  19-20;  Revolutionary 
Era,  61-62;  National  Period,  Early 
Writers,  Great  Names,  96-97; 
Of  Lesser  Note,  119;  Writers  of 
the  Mid-Century  and  After,  Great 
Names,  190-193;  Of  Lesser  Note, 
Fiction,  234-235;  Non-Fiction, 
267-268;  Poetry,  294-295;  Later 
and  Present-Day  Writers,  Fic- 
tion, 361-362;  Non-Fiction,  414; 
Poetry,  440-441;  the  American 
Magazine,  445-446;  the  Ameri- 
can Short  Story,  450;  the  Ameri- 
can Drama,  454. 


455 


456 


Index 


Biglow  Papers,  167,  170,  443. 
"Bill   Nye."    See   Nye,    Edgar 

Wilson,  201. 
Bimini  and  the  Fountain  of  Youth, 

264-267. 
Books,  378. 

Books  and  Culture,  366. 
Boston,  12,  IS,  21,  58,  59,  207,  296, 

331- 
Boston  Advertiser,  443. 
Boston  Courier,  443. 
Bowdoin  College,  134,  147. 
Brackenridge,  Hugh  H.,  53. 
Bradstreet,  Anne,  10. 
Brown,  Charles  Brockden,  52, 55, 

no,  443,  447. 
Brown  University,  292. 
Browne,  Charles  F.,  200,  201. 
Browning,  385. 

Browning's  Unpopularity,  385. 
Brussels  in  the  Sixteenth  Century,  244. 
Bryan,  William  J.,  374. 
Bryant,  William  Cullen,  52,  91, 

442. 
Bunner,  Henry  Cuyler,  427. 
Burke,  21. 

Burnett,  Frances  Hodgson,  324. 
Bums,  161. 

Burroughs,  John,  364. 
Butler,  Nicholas  Murray,  409. 
Butler's  "Hudibras,"  47. 

Cable,  George  Washington,  305, 

308. 
Caf6  dcs  EodUs,  308. 
Cambridge,  9,  iii,  120,  264,  296. 
Cambridge  (England),  147,  178. 
Carleton,  Will,  417. 
Carlyle,  120. 
Carman,  Bliss,  434. 
Cary,  Alice,  281,  282. 
Cary,  Phceb^,  282. 
Century  Magazine,  415,  444. 
Changes  of  tite  Nineteenth  Century, 

409. 
"Changing  America,"  411. 
"Charles  Egbert  Craddock."  See 

MuRFREE,  Mary  N.,  326. 


Charleston  College,  274. 

Chatham,  21. 

Cheney,  John  Vance,  421. 

Chicago  University,  437. 

China  to  the  Ranging  Eye,  411. 

Churchill,  Winston,  355. 

"Clari,  the  Maid  of  Milan,"  103. 

Clemens,  Samuel  L,,  224. 

Coleridge,  83,  120. 

Collins,  273. 

"Colonel    Carter   of   Cartersville," 

305- 
Columbia  University,  395,  409,  432, 

433- 
"  Common  Sense,"  33. 
Concord,  121,  129,  134. 
Concord  Hymn,  129. 
Confidence,  320-324. 
"Coniston,"  355. 
Contemplations,  10-12. 
Cooper,  James  Fenimore,  71,  91, 

no. 
CornhiU  Magazine,  449. 
Cosmopolitan,  444. 
Current  Opinion,  444. 
Curtis,  George  William,  254. 

"Daisy  Miller,"  320. 

Dana,  Jr.,  Richard  Henry,  hi, 

443- 
Dartmouth,  80,  434. 
Davis,  Richard  Harding,  341. 
Dawn  at  the  Moreno  Ranch,  197-200. 
"Death  in  a  School-Room,"  443. 
Deland,  Margaret  Wade,  331. 
Democracy  and^ Education,  409. 
Democratic  Review,  443. 
"Deserted  Village,"  161. 
Did,  443. 
Dickens,  444. 
Dickinson,  Emily,  285. 
DifficuUies  of  Union,  247. 
Dixie,  268. 
Donne,  John,  10. 
Doubt,  426. 

Drake,  Joseph  R.,  97,  98. 
Drama  League  of  America,  452. 
Dunbar,  Paul  Lawrence,  437. 


Index 


457 


Dunne,  Finley  Peter,  378. 
D WIGHT,  Timothy,  46,  51. 

Each  and  All,  1 29-131. 
Edinburgh,  178. 
Edinburgh  Review,  442. 
"Editha's  Burglar,"  324. 
Educational  Review,  409,  444. 
Educational  Theatre   for  Children 

and  Young  People,  453. 
Edwards,  Jonathan,  16,  51. 
Eliot,  Charles  William,  380. 
Eliot,  George,  444. 
Ehot,  John,  9. 
Emerson,  Ralph  Waldo,  120-121, 

200,  443,  444- 
Engineering  Magazine,  444. 
Everett,  Edward,  23s,  443' 
Everybody's,  444. 

"Fable  for  Critics,"  167. 

Farewell  Address,  28-30. 

"Federalist,"  35. 

Field,  Eugene,  417. 

Fiske,  John,  259. 

Fitch,  Clyde,  452. 

Foster,  Stephen  C,  280. 

Fox,  21. 

Fox,  John,  Jr.,  333. 

Franklin,  Benjamin,  21,  24,  443. 

"  Freedom  of  the  WiU,"  16. 

Freeman,  Mary  E,  Wilkins,  335. 

Freneau,  Philip,  52,  53. 

Fuller,  Margaret,  443, 

"Gallagher,"  341. 
Garland,  Hamlin,  331. 
General  Magazine,  443. 
Gentleman's  Magazine,  443. 
Gettysburg  Address,  240. 
Gilder,  Richard  Watson,  415. 
^^Give  Me  Liberty  or  Give  Me  Death" 

Speech,  30-33. 
Gladstone,  35. 
Godfrey,  Thomas,  53. 
Goethe,  120. 
Goldsmith,  161. 
Gosse,  Edmund,  287. 


Grady,  Henry  W.,  259. 

Graham's,  443,  448. 
Greeley,  Horace,  281. 

Hail  Columbia,  41,  43-45. 

Hale,  Edward  Everett,  207,  443, 

449. 
Halleck,  Fitz-Greene,  97,  442. 
Hamilton,  Alexander,  21,  34. 
Hamilton's  Speech  in  the  New  York 

Convention,  June  24,  1788,  35-37. 
Harper's  Magazine,  254,  303,  444. 
Harris,  Benjamin,  12. 
Harris,  Joel  Chandler,  305,  310. 
Harte,  Bret,  223,  350,  449,  453- 
"Hartford  Wits,"  46,  47- 
Harvard  College,  15,  in,  120,  121, 

131,  166,  177,  207,  235,  244,  256, 

259,  262,  380,  387,  400,  405,  432, 

437,  438. 
Hauptmann,  452. 
Hawkeye,  Chingachgook,  and  UncaSj 

72-80. 
Hawthorne,  Nathaniel,  83,  133- 

134,  448,  449- 
Hay,  John,  292. 

Hayne,  Paul  Hamilton,  268,  274. 
"Helen    Hunt."     See    Jackson, 

Helen  Fiske,  197. 
Henry,  Patrick,  21,  30. 
Herbert,  George,  10. 
Heme,  James  A.,  451. 
Hersts,  Minnie,  453. 
Hiawatha's  Wooing,  1 53-161. 
HiGGiNSON,  Thomas  Wentworth, 

264. 
His  Christmas  Miracle,  326. 
Holmes,  Oliver  Wendell,  16, 121, 

177,  443,  444. 
Home  Journal,  105. 
Home,  Sweet  Home,  103-104. 
Homer,  91, 

Hopkinson,  Francis,  41. 
HoPKiNSON,  Joseph,  41,  43. 
HovEY,  Richard,  434. 
"How  Sleep  the  Brave,"  273. 
Howard,  Bronson,  451. 
Howe,  Julia  Ward,  291. 


458 


Index 


HowELLS,    William    Dean,   30a- 

303,  320,  443,  444,  453- 
"Huckleberry  Finn,"  224. 
Hugh  Wynne,  296. 
Hugh's  School  Days,  296. 

Ibsen,  454. 

"Ichabod,"  80. 

"Ik    Marvel."     See    Mitchell, 

Donald  Grant,  204. 
"Iliad"  (Bryant's),  91. 
In  Ole  Virginia,  313. 
In  Opposition  to  Writs  of  Assistance, 

21-24. 
In  the  Wheat-Field,  274-275. 
Irving,  Washington,  63,  91,  97, 

296,  443,  447,  448. 
Israfel,  89-91. 

Jackson,  Helen  Fiske,  197. 

James,  Henry,  134,  320. 

Jamestown,  5,  7. 

Jay,  John,  35. 

"Jeanne  d'Arc,"  438,  452. 

Jefferson,  Thomas,  21,  30,  37. 

Jeferson's  First  Inaugural  Address, 

37-39- 
Jim  Bludsoe,  of  the  "Prairie  Belle,*' 

292. 
John  Gilley,  381. 
"John  Ward,  Preacher,"  331. 
Johns  Hopkins  University,  275. 
Jordan,  David  Starr,  393, 
"  Josh  Billings."  See  Shaw,  Henry 

W.,  200. 
Journal  (Woolman's),  17. 
Journal  of  Sociology,  444. 
Justice  vs.  Vindictiveness,  368-372. 

Kemble,  John  Philip,  451. 
Kennedy,  Charles  Rann,  452. 
Key,  Francis  Scott,  100. 
"Knickerbocker    History    of    New 

York,"  63. 
Knickerbocker  Magazine,  105,  443. 

Lamb,  Charles,  17,  254. 
Lanier,  Sidney,  268,  275. 


Lazarus,  Emma,  287. 
Learning  to  Write,  26-28. 
"Leather  Stocking  Tales,"  71. 
Leland  Stanford  University,  393. 
Lincoln,  Abraham,  240. 
Literary  Magazine,  443. 
Little  Boy  Blue,  417-418. 
LUUe  Lord  Fauntleroy,  324. 
"Little  Men,"  200. 
"Little  Women,"  200,  453. 
London,  5,  103,  451. 
London,  Jack,  359. 
Long,  William  J.,  112. 
Longfellow,  Henry  Wadsworth, 

147,  166,  264,  296,  443,  444. 
Longueville's  Sketch,  320-324. 
LouNSBURY,  Thomas  R,,  385. 
Lowell,  James  Russell,  121,  166- 

167,  264,  296,  443,  444. 


Mabie,  Hamilton  Wright,  320, 
366. 

MacKaye,  Percy,  438,  450,  452. 

MacWhirtcr's  Fireplace,  306. 

Madison,  James,  35. 

Maeterlinck,  452. 

Magnolia  Christi  Americana,  15. 

"Main-Travelled  Roads,"  331. 

"Marco  Bozzaris,"  442. 

"Margaret  Fleming,"  451. 

"Mark  Twain."  See  Clemens, 
Samuel  L.,  224. 

Markham,  Edwin,  419. 

Marks,  Josephine  Preston  Peabody, 
438,  452. 

Marse  Chan,  313. 

Massachusetts  Institute  of  Tech- 
nology, 391. 

Mather,  Cotton,  15. 

Mather,  Increase,  15. 

Mather,  Richard,  9,  14. 

Mathers,  14,  121. 

Matthews,  Brander,  72,  296,  395, 
446,  450,  451,  452. 

Maud  Muller,  162-166. 

McFingal  to  the  Whigs,  47. 

"Meadow  Brook,"  280. 


Index 


459 


Memoirs  of  Remarkables  in  the  Life 
and  the  Death  of  the  Ever-Memo- 
rable Dr.  Increase  Mather,  15. 

"  Mere  Literature  and  Other  Es- 
says," 406. 

Miller,  Joaquin,  416. 

Mitchell,  Donald  Grant,  204. 

Mitchell,  S.  Weir,  296. 

"Moona  Vanna,"  452. 

Moody,  William  Vaughn,  437,  452. 

Morris,  George,  104. 

Mother  England,  425. 

Motley,  John  Lothrop,  244,  264, 

444. 

"Mr.  Dooley."  See  Dunne,  Fin- 
ley  Peter,  378. 

Mr.  Dooley  Says,  378. 

Mr.  Potiphar's  New  House,  254- 
256. 

Mr.  Traverses  First  Hunt,  341. 

Munsey's,  444. 

Murfree,  Mary  N.,  326. 

My  Double  and  How  He  Undid  Me, 
207. 

My  Little  Girl,  425. 

"My  Old  Kentucky  Home,"  280. 

Myself,  288. 


"Nathan  Hale,"  452. 

Nature  in  Poetry,  365. 

New  Books,  391. 

New  England  Magazine,  443. 

New  Orleans,  308. 

New  York,  53,  55,  58,  91,  97,  105, 

223,  259,  287,  290,  296,  320,  331, 

335,  350,  362,  364,  368,  395,  41S, 

419,  425. 
New  York  Corsair,  443. 
New  York  Mirror,  105,  443. 
New  York  Review,  442. 
NoRRis,  Frank,  344. 
North  American  Review,  442,  443. 
Norton,  Charles  Eliot,  262,  443. 
Notes  of  Travel  and  Study  in  Italy, 

263. 
"Novelle  oder  Roman,"  446. 
Nye,  Edgar  Wilson,  201,  203. 


O'Brien,  Fitz- James,  449. 

O,  Captain  I  My  Captain!  287,  28&- 
289. 

Ode  on  the  Centenary  of  Abraham 
Lincoln,  438. 

Ode  (Timrod),  273. 

"Odyssey"  (Bryant's),  91;  (Pal- 
mer's), 387. 

Oglethorpe  College,  275. 

O'Hara,  Theodore,  268,  270. 

"O.  Henry."  See  Porter,  Wil- 
liam Sidney,  350. 

Old  Creole  Days,  308. 

Old  Folks  at  Home,  280-281. 

Old  North  Church,  15,  121. 

On  a  Honey  Bee,  54-55. 

On  the  Death  of  Joseph  Rodman 
Drake,  97-98. 

On  the  Federal  Constitution,  25-26. 

On  the  Keeping  of  Slaves,  17-19. 

Otis,  James,  21. 

"Over  the  Tea-Cups,"  178. 

Oxford,  62,.  147,  178. 

Page,  Thomas  Nelson,  305,  313. 

Paine,  Thomas,  21,  33. 

Palmer,  George  Herbert,  387. 

Parkman,  Francis,  256,  259. 

Payne,  John  Howard,  103. 

Peck,  Harry  Thurston,  433. 

Peck,  Samuel  Minturn,  423. 

Pen  and  Ink,  395. 

People's  Institute,  453. 

Pepys,  13. 

Perry,  BHss,  443. 

Peter  Parley's  Token,  443. 

"Peter  Rugg,"  448. 

Peters,  Phillis  Wheatley,  59. 

Phelps,  WiUiam  Lyon,  224. 

Philadelphia,  41,  53,  296,  368. 

Phillips,  Moses  D.,  444. 

Phillips,  Wendell,  243. 

Pike,  Albert,  268. 

Pike  County  Ballads,  292. 

PoE,  Edgar   Allan,  52,  83,   442, 

443,  447,  448,  449. 
"Poor  Richard's  Almanac,"  24. 
Porter,  William  Sidney,  350. 


460 


Index 


"Precaution,"  171. 

Princeton  College,  16,  53,  400,  406. 

Psalm  CXXXVII  (Dwight),  51. 

"Psalm  of  Life,"  443. 

Psychological  Review,  444. 

Puck,  427. 

Quarterly  Journal  of  Economics,  444. 

Raggylug,  332-333- 

Ramona,  197. 

Read,  Thomas  Buchanan,  283. 

"Rebecca   of   Sunnybrook   Farm," 

453- 
Recrimination,  430-432. 
Reply  to  Hayne,  80. 
Repplier,  Agnes,  368. 
Reveries  of  a  Bachelor,  204. 
Richard  Carvel,  355. 
Riley,  James  Whitcomb,  42V. 
Ripley,  George,  443. 
"Rip  van  Winkle,"  447. 
Robertson,  Donald,  453. 
Rocked  in  the  Cradle  of  the  Deep,  102- 

103. 
Roosevelt,  Theodore,  368. 
"Rose  of  Butcher's  Coolly,"  331. 
Ross,  Edward  Alsworth,  411. 
Rossetti's  A  Sonnet  is  a  Moment's 

Monument,  415. 
"Rudder  Grange,"  217. 

"Sacred  Poems,"  105. 

"Sag  Harbor,"  451. 

Salem  Witchcraft,  13. 

Salt,  400-405. 

"Salvation  NeU,"  452. 

**  School,"  438. 

Scientific  American,  444. 

Scott,  Sir  Walter,  63,  71. 

Scribner's  Monthly,  415,  444. 

"Sea  Tales,"  71. 

Second  Bunker  Hill  Oration,  81. 

Second  Inaugural  Address,  241-242. 

Seton,  Ernest  Thompson,  331. 

Sewall,  Samuel,  13. 

Shakespeare,  7,  385,  451. 

Shaw,  Henry  W.,  200,  202. 


Sheldon,  Edward,  452. 
"Shenandoah,"  451. 
Sheridan,  451. 
Sheridan's  Ride,  283-285. 
"Shore  Acres,"  451. 
"Silence  and  Other  Stories,"  335. 
Sill,  Edward  Roland,  286. 
Simms,  William  Gilmore,  iio. 
Simonds,   Professor,   45,    120,    134, 

217,  286. 
"Sin  and  Society,"  411. 
"Sir  Roger  de  Coverley,"  447. 
Smith,  C.  Alphonso,  446,  447,  454. 
Smith,  Charles  Sprague,  453. 
Smith,  Francis  Hopkinson,  305. 
Smith,  John,  5. 
Smith,  Samuel  F.,  118. 
Smith,  Sydney,  442. 
"Snow-Bound,"  161. 
"Social  Control,"  411. 
So?n€  Islands  of  the  Lagoons,  303. 
Some  Memories  of  Childhood,  355. 
Song  of  the  Chattahoochee,  279-280. 
"Songs  from  Vagabondia,"  434. 
Songs  of  Nature,  365. 
Southern  Literary  Messenger,  443. 
Spielhagen,  Friedrich,  446. 
Stedman,   Edmimd   Clarence,   121, 

41S,  425- 
Steele,  447. 

Stockton,  Frank  R.,  217. 
Stoddard,   Richard  Henry,  290, 

415. 
Stowe,  Harriet  Beecher,  193. 
Strachey,  William,  7. 
Stratford-on-Avon,  438,  452. 
Stuart,  Ruth  McEnery,  305,  320. 
"Sunken  Bell,"  452. 
Symonds's  "The  Sonnet,"  415. 

Tales  of  a  Traveller,  64. 

Tales  of  the  Enchanted  Islands  of  the 

Atlantic,  264. 
Talks  on  the  Study  of  Literature,  391. 
Taylor,  Bayard,  251,  415. 
Tennyson,  83,  273. 
Thackeray,  444. 
"Thanatopsis,"  91,  442. 


Index 


461 


The  Adventure  of  My  Aunt,  64-68. 

The  Alhamhra,  68. 

The  Ambitious  Guest,  134. 

The  American  Flag,  98. 

The  American  Scholar,  121. 

The  Arrow  and  the  Song,  152. 

The  Autocrat  of  the  Breakfast-Table, 

178,  183,  443. 
"The  Awakening  of  Helena  Ritchie," 

453- 

The  Ballad  of  Nathan  Hale,  41,  45- 
46. 

"The  Battle  of  Bunker  Hill,"  53. 

The  Battle  of  the  Ants,  131-133. 

The  Bay  Psalm  Book,  9-10,  15. 

The  Belfry  Pigeon,  105-107. 

The  Better  Part,  372. 

The  Bivouac  of  the  Dead,  270-272. 

"The  Brook"  (Tennyson),  280. 

The  Bucket,  101-102. 

The  Building  of  the  Cathedral,  263- 
264. 

The  Bumblebee,  202-203. 

The  Call  of  the  Bugles,  434-437. 

The  Call  of  the  Wild,  359. 

"The  Canterbury  Pilgrims,"  438, 
452. 

"The  Cataract  of  Lodore,"  280. 

The  Chambered  Nautilus,  178-179. 

The  Changing  Chinese,  411. 

The  Character  of  Washington  (Jeffer- 
son), 39-40;  (Webster)  81-83; 
(Everett)  235-239. 

The  Child^  432. 

"The  Columbiad,"  49. 

The  Commoner,  374, 

The  Conspiracy  of  Pontiac,  257. 

The  Contrast,  58-59,  451. 

"The  Cotter's  Saturday  Night,"  161. 

The  Count  a?id  the  Wedding  Guest, 

350-355. 
The  Courting  170-173. 
The  Courting  of  Madam  Winthrop, 

13-14. 
The  Crisis,  33. 
"The  Crisis,"  355- 
The  Day  is  Done,  152. 
The  Day  of  Freedom,  33-34. 


The  Day  of  Judgment,  229-234. 
The  Deacon's  Masterpiece,  16,  180- 

183. 
The  Death  of  McKinley,  393-395. 
The  Death  of  Pontiac,  257-259. 
The  Death  of  the  Flowers,  91-92,  442. 
The  Declaration  of  Independence,  407— 

409. 
The  Early  Literary  Career  of  Robert 

Browning,  385. 
"The  Faith  Healer,"  452. 
The  Federal  Union,  80-81. 
The  Feeling  for  Literature,  366-368. 
The  Fool's  Prayer,  286-287. 
The  Frost  Spirit,  161. 
"The  Fruit  of  the  Tree,"  335. 
The  Garden  Hose,  203. 
"The  Gates  Ajar,"  229. 
The  Ghetto  and  the  Jews  of  Venice^ 

304-305. 
"The  Great  Divide,"  437,  452. 
The  Hasty  Pudding,  49-51. 
The  Height  of  the  Ridiculous,  179- 

180. 
"The  Henrietta,"  451. 
The  Home  Journal,  105. 
"The  House  of  Life,"  415. 
"The  House  of  Mirth,"  335. 
The  Hurricane,  94. 
"The  Innocents  Abroad,"  224. 
The  Jumping  Frog,andOtherSketcheSf 

224. 
The  Lady  or  the  Tiger,  217-223. 
The  Last  Days  of  Increase  Mather, 

15-16. 
The  Last  of  the  Mohicans,  72. 
The  Lessons  of  the  Tragedy,  393. 
The  Little  Theatre,  453. 
The  Lonesome  Pine,  333. 
"The  Lost  Occasion,"  80. 
The  Lost  Pleiad,  iio-iii. 
The  Man  with  the  Hoe,  420-421. 
"The  Man   Without  a   Country," 

207,  443,  449- 
The  Marshes  of  Glynn,  275-278. 
The  Masque  of  the  Red  Death,  83-89. 
The  Meaning  of  Education,  409. 
The  Mirror,  105. 


462 


Index 


"The  Mocking  Bird,"  268. 

The  Mysterious  Chambers ,  68-71. 

The  New  England  Primer,  12-13. 

The  New  South,  259. 

The  New  Theatre,  453. 

The  Notorious  Jumping  Frog,  etc., 

224-229. 
"The  Octopus,"  344. 
The  Old  Man  and  Jim,  421-423. 
The  Old  South  and  the  New,  259-262. 
The  Other  One,  433-434. 
The  Outlook,  362,  366. 
"The  Partisan,"  no. 
"The  Passionate  Pilgrim,"  320. 
'The  Philosophy  of  the  Short  Story," 

446. 
"The  Pilot,"  72. 
"The  Piper,"  438,  452. 
The  Pit,  344. 

"The  Playhouse  and  the  Play,"  450. 
The  Potiphar  Papers,  254. 
"The  Prince  of  Parthia,"  52. 
"The  Raven,"  442. 
"The  Return  of  Peter  Grimm,"  452. 
"The  Rise  of  Silas  Lapham,"  303. 
The  Rise  of  the  Dutch  Republic,  244. 
"The  Scarecrow,"  438,  452. 
"The  Scarlet  Letter,"  134. 
The  Sea,  204-207. 
"The  Servant  in  the  House,"  452. 
The  Sewall  Papers,  13. 
The  Shepherd  of  King  Admetus,  167. 
The  Skeleton  in  Armor,  14 7-1 51. 
The  Song  of  Hiawatha,  153. 
Ths  Song  of  Myself,  288. 
The  Songs  of  the  Civil  War,  395. 
The  Sonnet,  415. 
The  Spectator,  447. 
"The  Spy,"  71. 

The  Star-Spangled  Banner,  loo-ioi. 
"The  State,"  406. 
"The  Story  of  a  Bad  Boy,"  224. 
The  Story  of  "My  Maryland,^*  395- 

400. 
The  Story  of  the  Doodang,  311-313. 
"The  Tempest,"  7. 
"The  Terrible  Meek,"  452. 
The  Toll-Gatherer's  Day,  140-146. 


The  Trail  of  the  Lonesome  Pine,  333, 

453- 
The  Trimmed  Lamp,  350. 
"The  Valley  of  Decision,"  335. 
The  Voice  of  the  Scholar,  393. 
The  Way  to  Arcady,  427-429. 
The  Wheal  Pit,  344-350. 
The  White  Man's  Burden,  374. 
The  Wild  Honeysuckle,  52,  53-54,  96. 
"The  Winning  of  the  West,"  368. 
"The  Wolf,"  344. 
The  Wood  Fire  in  No.  j,  306. 
The   Yellow  Fever  in  Philadelphia, 

SS-S1- 
Thomas,  Augustus,  452. 
Thomas,  Edith,  425. 
Thoreau,  Henry  D.,  131,  200. 
Thoughts  on  a  Thunderstorm,  17. 
TiMROD,  Henry,  268,  273. 
To  a  Waterfowl,  93,  442. 
To  the  Dandelion,  168-170. 
To  the  Death,  359-361. 
To  the  Fringed  Gentian,  95. 
"  To  the  Mocking  Bird,"  268. 
To  the  Right  Honorable  William,  Earl 

of  Dartmouth,  60. 
"To  the  Small  Celandine,"  96. 
"Tom  Sawyer,"  224. 
Topsy,  193-197. 
Toussaint  L'Ouvcrture,  242-244. 
Transcendentalists,  120,  121,  200. 
Trolly's  Wedding  Tour,  229. 
True  Relation,  5-7. 
Trumbull,  John,  46,  47. 
Tuskeegee,  372. 
Ttmce  Told  Tales,  134. 
Two  Years  Before  the  Mast,  in,  n2. 
Tyler,  Professor,  37. 
Tyler,  Royall,  53,  58,  451. 

Uncle  Remus  and  the  Little  Boy,  311. 
Uncle  Tom's  Cabin,  193,  197. 
University  of  California,  286. 
University  of  Georgia,  273. 
University  of  Wisconsin,  411. 

Van  Bibber  and  Others,  341. 
Van  Dyke,  Henry,  400. 


Index 


463 


Venetian  Life,  303,  443. 
Views  A-Foot,  251. 

Walden,  131. 

Wallace,  Lewis,  217. 

Ward,  Elizabeth  Stuart  Phelps, 

229. 
Washington  Abroad  and  at  Home,  235. 
Washington,  Booker,  372. 
Washington,  D.  C,  100,  287,  437. 
Washington,  George,  21,  28. 
Watts's  "The  Sonnet's  Voice,"  415. 
Webster,  Daniel,  80. 
Welde,  Thomas,  9. 
Wellesley  CoUege,  438. 
Wendell,  Barrett,  17,  105,  121, 

134,  296,  405. 
Westminster  Abbey,  147. 
Wharton,  Edith,  335. 

"What  Was  It?"  449. 
Whitman,  Walt,  287,  443. 
Whittier,  John  Greenleaf,  17, 80, 
161,  273,  443. 


"Wieland,"  $5,  447- 
Wilcox,  Ella  Wheeler,  429. 
Wild  Animals  I  Have  Known,  332. 
WiLLARD,  Emma  H.,  102. 
Willis,  Nathaniel  Parker,  105, 

443. 
Wilson,  Woodrow,  313,  406. 
Wisconsin  Dramatic  Society,  452. 
Woman's  Rights,  201. 
Woodberry,  George  E,,  432. 
Woodman,  Spare  That  Tree,  104-105 
WooDWORTH,  Samuel,  ioi. 
Woolman,  John,  17. 
Wordsworth,  91,  96. 
Wordsworth's    "Nuns    Fret   Not,'= 

415. 

Wordsworth's  "Scorn  Not  the  Son- 
net," 415. 

Warth  While,  430. 

Wynken,  Blynken,  and  Nod,  418- 
419- 

Yale  College,  46,  51, 105,  204,  385. 


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